


Jamie Potter and Harmony Granger in the Adventure of the Magical Mindswap

by PseudoLeigha



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 14:36:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 44,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11420049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PseudoLeigha/pseuds/PseudoLeigha
Summary: There are certain segments of the Harry Potter fandom which more or less idolize Hermione. You know, the people who think that Hermione really should have been the main character of the stories all along, because she was the only one of the trio with a brain. Now, I don't necessarily think JKR did a great job portraying her as very intelligent in the series, but I'm still one of those people who wants to see what she could have been if she were actually the main character, and not just the brainy sidekick (or, as in Mary Potter, a mostly-independent secondary protagonist doing her own thing on the sidelines). So this is that story: What happens if you put Hermione Granger's mind into Harry Potter's body, effectively making her the Boy Who Lived?So she wakes up in his body, and vice versa. While he revels in his new-found loving family (which more than makes up for the strangeness of waking up as a girl), she drastically re-evaluates her priorities, endeavoring to act like the story-book heroines with whom she is so familiar and deal with this unpleasant development as efficiently as possible.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> First order of business: escaping the Dursleys.
> 
> Second order of business: ensuring she goes home from Diagon Alley with the kind, proper, and very wealthy Malfoys rather than the quite frankly creepy old man who apparently left Harry with the Dursleys in the first place.
> 
> Third order of business: finding someone who will not only believe that she is not Harry Potter, but who will help her get her own bloody life back! (Voldemort, the Philosopher's Stone, and any related attempts on her (Harry's) life are far less important than the fact that she's been turned into a bloody boy, damn it!)
> 
> This story started as a straightforward body-swapping, what-if plot, and then Narcissa Malfoy happened. The Mary Potter Multiverse being what it is, the logical outcome of her gaining control over Jamie was obviously to sacrifice her choice of declaring to the Dark in an attempt to renew the broken covenant between the House of Black and the Dark Powers. So now The Adventure of the Magical Mindswap is intended to run in parallel with Regulus Black and the Redemption of the Darkest House, which examines the consequences when someone other than Dumbledore uses 'Harry' as their own pawn, far more directly than Dumbledore did in the first few books; what happens when the ex-Death-Eaters take it upon themselves to mutiny against their missing master; and why they might be interested in such a path.
> 
> These were initially a single story, and may be re-combined again at some point if I can make the pacing… not too weird.

**1 May 2002**

**(the day before the Third Anniversary of the Final Battle)**

* * *

Hermione carefully double-checked the runes she had laid out on her workroom floor and began chanting the incantation she had discovered in a crumbling text at the back of the Restricted Section. It had taken years to re-construct the ancient spell, but she found she had a great deal more free time at school when no one was trying to kill her best friend, and it wasn't as though her position with the Ministry was exactly all-consuming. Besides, if she had learned one thing since meeting Harry Potter, it was that some things were more important than marks (or productivity evaluations). Like Tonks and Remus, whose son was now three and had never known his parents. Like Fred, whose family was lost without him, even now. Like Sirius, who had never gotten to really live, going from war to Azkaban, to being a fugitive before he was cut down by his own cousin. Like Dumbledore and Colin Creevey and even that horrible cow Lavender Brown.

They had won the war, yes, but the cost had been high – too high.

It was said that awful things happened to those who meddled with Time, but the truth was, awful things had happened anyway. It could have been worse, of course, but with a little more knowledge in the right place, well… it could have been a lot better, too.

Power grew heavy in the air, focusing itself on Hermione, as she sat at the center of the complex circle. _Send it back_ , she thought, _everything we know now – everything I wish I'd known then. Give me – everyone – this chance to re-make our world…_

Then there was a crack, and a mussy, bleeding, dark-haired young man dropped out of thin air on top of her, the power collapsing around them, backlash overwhelmingly painful. Hermione's world went black, and when it re-appeared, she groaned.

"Harry?"

The wizard who had apparated straight into her flat made an inarticulate noise and sat up slowly. "Hermione? W's go'n on?"

"Oooh! You've ruined everything! What were you even _thinking?_ "

"Aaah, Death Eaters, run?" he deadpanned, clearly unimpressed. "What were you _doing_?"

"It's – I'm – you weren't supposed to know! I didn't want you to find out!"

" _Hermione_ ," Harry sounded almost scared. "What did you _do_?"

"Oh, I don't know! It was supposed to send knowledge, information, to my younger self! But it didn't work – you interrupted, and, and I don't think anything's changed!"

She broke down in tears, and when she finally recovered herself, Harry called Ron, and they spent the better part of the remainder of the day talking her out of her grand plan to save _everyone_.

"It's over, Hermione," Ron whispered, holding her close and petting her curls gently. "We have to move on."

* * *

Meanwhile, on another plane of existence, Chaos cackled wildly and watched with bated breath as a new infinity of possibilities spawned from a highly improbable road-not-traveled.


	2. The First Day

**Monday, 22 July 1991**

_**Hermione** _

Hermione Granger was cold. She was also (mostly) asleep, and did _not_ want to get up yet, so she snuggled deeper beneath her thin blanket, half-wondering what had happened to her nice fluffy duvet, and why her parents had turned the air conditioning up so far. She was also hungry. Maybe it was almost time to get up, anyway, but her desire for sleep was still (barely) stronger than her desire to find breakfast. She rolled over and promptly fell to the floor, looking around wildly, confused. Then, as she realized her surroundings, she panicked.

She was in a box! A tiny, too-small space! She had been sleeping on a cot, in a tiny room with no windows! What was going on? Had she been kidnapped? Where were her parents? Her clothes? Her bedroom? There were no windows, and only a thin shaft of light to indicate a door. She threw herself against it desperately. It was _locked_!

For the first time in ten years, number four, Privet Drive, woke to shrieks of horror.

_**Harry** _

Harry Potter woke up warm and comfortable, to cheerful sunlight streaming through an east-facing window. He was in a bedroom decorated in warm fall colors, its brownish red walls covered with shelves holding more books than he had ever seen anywhere outside of a library. He blinked, hard. Still there. Pinched himself. Not dreaming.

_Impossible._

That was about the point that he noticed the hand and the arm pinching it were _not his_.

He scrambled out of bed and tripped over a pile of discarded clothing and yet more books, struggling to reach the gleam of a mirror on the half-open closet door. A girl with brown eyes and wildly curly brown hair, quite a lot taller than Harry himself, stared back at him. He touched her – his? – face gently, shocked, and then pinched himself again. Still apparently not asleep.

"Hermione!" an exasperated male voice called from elsewhere in the house. "Wake up, goose! Muffins will be done in ten minutes!"

Harry grinned. He had no _idea_ what was going on, but it wasn't the first time something completely impossible had happened to him. Muffins sounded brilliant, and he was fully prepared to enjoy whatever this was… as soon as he figured out how girls used the loo.

_**Hermione** _

There was a thundering above Hermione's head, and then the door was thrown open, fairly well blinding her in the brief second before the light was obscured by an enormously overgrown walrus of a man. He hauled her out of what she now saw was a boot-cupboard by the arm.

She was, of course, still shrieking – "What's going on? Where am I? Who are you? Have you kidnapped me? Why? My parents haven't any money – they're just _dentists!_ You must have me confused with someone else!"

The man was shaking her, shouting a similar litany – "What is the meaning of this racket, boy? Have you no respect? What the bloody hell are you on about? Your parents died in a bloody smash-up, you daft freak!"

A thin, horse-faced woman and a ridiculously obese boy of about Hermione's own age appeared around the man's back. It was the woman who spoke. "Vernon?"

'Vernon' threw Hermione hard against the wall opposite the still-open door of the cupboard, hovering over her threateningly. Her head cracked against the wall. "Well, boy? What do you have to say for yourself?!"

Hermione froze, her mind suddenly focused on the man's words, rather than her own fearful assumptions or even the pain at the back of her skull. _Boy?_ Something decidedly _odd_ was going on here. Stranger even than when she thought she had been kidnapped. It was as though they had mistaken her for someone else, which shouldn't even be possible, since they thought she was some _boy_ , and how had she gotten into their house, anyway, and was the 'boy' _supposed_ to have been locked in a cupboard? He must have been – there was a cot, after all, but that didn't make any sense _at all_.

The man was still looming and glowering at her. She shrank away from the large, meaty hands that had thrown her into the wall. "Please, sir – I – I'm sorry – I just –"

The man harrumphed. "Lost his ruddy mind," he grumbled, lumbering away.

"Get dressed, and then into the kitchen, earn your keep," the woman said with a disdainful sniff. "And mind you don't ruin the eggs, or we'll re-consider letting you out of your cupboard today! You'd think a month would be enough," she added under her breath as she followed the man who had to be her husband out of the hall.

The boy kicked her hard, in the ribs, as he waddled after his parents. "I was havin' a lie-in, freak!" he added, which she supposed was supposed to be some sort of explanation for his actions.

 _Hermione Jean Granger_ , she thought to herself, as she rose unsteadily on what she quickly realized were unfamiliar feet, _what on Earth have you got yourself into now?_

_**Harry** _

After a few misadventures in the bathroom, and a frantic hunt through Hermione's closet for something that didn't feel too terribly awkward to wear, Harry had joined her parents for breakfast. The father – Dan, according to the mother – was a jolly man who gave off an air of distracted bookishness. The mother – Emma – was all barely-restrained energy and excitement. Harry mostly kept quiet over the meal, making non-committal noises when the adults said things like "Weren't you hungry? You normally eat before you shower," "Maiabee, did you comb your hair? You know you have to before it dries…" and "Slow down, love, we're not going to be late!"

It was, he decided, entirely odd, being treated more like the Dursleys treated Dudley, instead of himself.

As it turned out, Hermione and her parents had been planning to meet with the Headmistress of her prep school and the Headmaster of a nearby public academy to discuss whether Hermione could skip ahead (another) year, joining Year 9 when classes resumed, instead of Year 7, like Harry had been planning to do. So far as he could tell, from the adults' discussion, the girl whose body he was now in had already skipped over one of the primary years, and had just _finished_ Year 7, though she was less than a year older than he was. He figured she must be the bookish sort – it made sense with her room, he supposed.

It was bad luck on him, though, because he was bottom of the class in Year 6. This was due to a combination of days missed in punishment, no time to do his homework, and the fact that he was punished whenever he accidentally did better than Dudley on a test. He had just barely passed his end of term exams, and that was a near thing – after the 'incident' with the snake at the zoo, Aunt Petunia had almost not let him go to school at all.

Thankfully, Hermione's parents, the Grangers, didn't want their daughter advanced another year. If they had, and he had been asked to take a test or something, Harry was sure he would never have been able to keep up the act of being Hermione Granger, even if whatever was going on only lasted for the day. As it was, he was able to side-step the whole situation by "reluctantly" agreeing that perhaps it was best after all if Hermione took an extra year to "focus on social development and get to know your peers, dear." Harry heaved a sigh of relief as the Grangers led him back to the car, though his relief was short-lived as his sudden "change of heart" was thoroughly questioned on the drive back to the Grangers' home.

Having parents, he decided, must be much more difficult than he had ever imagined, back when he was lying awake in his cupboard and imagining what his own must have been like.

_**Hermione** _

Hermione did not learn the name of the person she was meant to be until halfway through breakfast.

She had, in fact, burnt the eggs, or some of them, anyway, whilst having a mild panic attack over the fact that she was now, apparently, a _boy_ living in a suburban wasteland with three horrible people she sincerely hoped he wasn't related to – maybe he was an unregistered immigrant? Or one of those white slaves you sometimes heard about on the BBC, but didn't want to believe really existed? She was, in punishment, given only the most charred bits and pieces for her own breakfast, which she ate anyway, because as soon as she smelled the bacon cooking, the hunger she had felt before she had woken up had come back in full force.

The man, Vernon, was reading the Daily Mail (which Hermione sniffed at, because _her_ parents read _real_ papers like the Observer and the Independent and sometimes even the Times), when the day's post was delivered. He didn't even look up to say, "Get the mail, Harry."

The fat boy, previously referred to only as 'poppet,' 'darling,' 'my boy,' or 'son,' didn't move. Neither did Hermione.

"Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley," the horrid man said, still from behind his 'paper.'

The fat boy – Dudley, apparently (she thought it rather suited him, the dumb, piggy creature) – banged a knobbly stick on the table, so Hermione made haste to fetch the post. The letters told her several things about her new predicament: Apparently the house was in Surrey, a town called Little Whinging. The people who lived in it were called the Dursleys. Apparently Vernon had a sister called Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, and his wife was called Petunia. Harry was at least _not_ their son, because there was a letter to him specifically, its envelope made up of heavy, yellowish parchment, addressed to 'H. Potter' at _the cupboard under the stairs_ , and apparently hand-delivered as there was no stamp. This in turn implied that someone _knew_ Harry Potter was being kept _in a cupboard under the stairs_ and hadn't seen fit to do anything about it when they dropped off said letter. The day just kept getting stranger.

"Hurry up, boy! What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?"

"Erm, coming?" Hermione called back, shoving the letter to H. Potter into the pocket of the ridiculously oversized trousers she had found in his cupboard. They had to be hand-me-downs from the fat – _Dudley_ , she corrected herself.

She passed a brown bill-envelope and Marge Dursley's postcard to Vernon and grabbed an apple from the centerpiece. Before she could bite into it, Petunia snatched it away with a scandalized glare.

"Hey!"

"You'll eat what you're given, boy!"

"What? Are you _kidding_ me? I'm starving!" she snapped reflexively.

Apparently that was a wrong thing to say, because the woman back-handed her, faster than Hermione could see it coming. The pig sniggered, and the man actually looked over his paper to glare at her, too. Hermione, who had never been struck before in her life before that morning, gaped at the cow. "You should know better than to talk back by now! You're a burden on this house, and I'll thank you to appreciate the charity we've extended to you, out of the goodness of our hearts! And don't ask questions!"

The blatant stupidity of that statement was too much for Hermione to handle. "I'm sorry, _what_?" There was _no way_ the Dursleys' illegal servant-boy was any sort of a burden on a family with a house this nice. And their son weighed easily twice as much as she did: They clearly weren't pinched for food.

"Don't talk back to your Aunt, _boy_!" Vernon roared, "Or it's back to the cupboard for you!"

Hermione shut up, resolving to call Child Protective Services at the earliest opportunity. _His aunt?_ It was bad enough when she thought Harry Potter was not related to them, but to make their own _nephew_ sleep in a cupboard? Even if everything went back to normal tomorrow morning, or it turned out this was all some very strange dream (though it didn't feel like a dream), she didn't think she could face her mother, knowing she hadn't done something to fix the situation.

Fortunately, she had a _very_ good idea of how to do that.

_**Harry** _

Shortly after Harry and the Grangers returned to the Grangers' home and Harry escaped the adults' questioning by retreating to Hermione's room (which he tidied, for lack of anything better to do, or any other chores assigned), there was a knock at the front door.

Harry knew better than to answer the door unless specifically told to do so, so he lurked at the top of the stairs until he heard an older woman with a Scottish accent say, "Hello. Mr. Granger, is it?"

"Doctor, actually. My wife and I are dentists."

"I… see. Well. My name is Minerva McGonagall, and I am the Deputy Headmistress of a very special school for gifted children. Is your daughter Hermione available?"

 _Ha_ , Harry thought, even as he clattered down the stairs at Mr. (Dr.) Granger's shouted summons.

Deputy Headmistress McGonagall, an older woman in an equally old skirt-suit, was ushered into the den – a much cozier space than Aunt Petunia's 'parlor' – and the four of them sat, Harry rather on the edge of his seat. His only consolation was that it appeared the woman's visit was a surprise to Hermione's parents as well as to him. Introductions were conducted quickly and tea was offered and declined before Mrs. Granger said in what Harry suspected was meant to be a consoling tone, "Professor McGonagall, thank you for your school's interest in our daughter's education, but I'm not aware of any schools in the area who recruit students entering Year Eight?"

"Ah, well, I suppose we'd best get right down to it, then," the Professor said seriously. "This may be… difficult, for you to understand, and to accept, but I must ask you to bear with me, and let me explain fully before you ask your questions."

"Don't tell us, you're recruiting for some super-secret MI6 training programme or the like," Mr. Granger joked, lightening the mood only slightly.

"Not quite, Dr. Granger." The visitor took a deep breath. "I am a witch. My school, Hogwarts, specializes in training young witches and wizards, like your daughter, to control and practice their innate magical skills."

"You're having us on," Mrs. Granger accused.

"I'm afraid not," the 'witch' said with a somewhat rueful smile. And then she turned into a cat.

Mr. Granger reached out and petted it hesitantly. "It's a real cat, Emma!" he exclaimed.

The cat stalked away, to the middle of the room, before turning back into the witch with a small pop.

Harry felt his heart fall. Pinches or no pinches, he decided, this _had_ to be a dream. He said as much aloud, and was rewarded with a grin. "Oh, no, I assure you, Miss Granger, this is all _very real_. Have you never had something completely inexplicable happen around you? Objects floating, or perhaps setting on fire, or appearing when you needed them?"

Truth be told, strange things _had_ happened around Harry, but he could hardly admit he'd turned a teacher's wig blue, once, when he was currently pretending to be Hermione Granger. Presumably, though, she had done strange things before, too, because her parents exchanged worried looks, and then Mrs. Granger said, "All right, you have our attention."

**_Hermione_ **

Hermione's day did _not_ improve after breakfast. She was thrown out of the house and ordered to weed the garden, which she did half-heartedly for twenty minutes or so before sneaking back inside. She had no idea which plants were weeds and which of the ones without flowers or vegetables were meant to be there, anyway.

She managed to find a bathroom and inspected her new appearance – green eyes, messy black hair, small and skinny, with a zig-zag scar on the forehead – for nearly five minutes before Harry's so-called aunt found her and yelled for the next half an hour about her tracking dirt through the house, and how she would clean it up and then get to her other chores _or else_.

Hermione couldn't see any dirt, herself, but she did as she was told, running the hoover under the cow's watchful gaze before she was dismissed with orders to 'tidy Dudley's _bedrooms_ ,' _plural_ and fetch all of the dirty laundry to be washed, and be quick about it.

This was the first opportunity she had had to see the upstairs, where she found to her complete disgust, there were _four_ bedrooms. _Four_. And all of them had beds! Even the one that was full of broken toys and things that clearly wasn't lived in! And they made their nephew sleep _under the stairs_! It was like something out of a Dickens novel! Honestly!

She gathered up a handful of Legos from the floor and slipped them under the fitted sheet in what was clearly the room where Dudley slept before shoving all of his remaining crap into the closet and under the bed. Sleeping on them probably wouldn't be anything near as bad as getting kicked in the ribs – they had bruised awfully – she had checked – but it made her feel a _bit_ better that he would get _some_ kind of comeuppance for his bullying.

She took her time finding the laundry and dragging baskets of soiled clothes to it, poking around between trips until she located a telephone directory. She hid in the loo while she memorized the number she needed, then began throwing things in the wash willy-nilly. She knew there was a proper way to do this, of course, but she couldn't care less if all their clothes ended up shrunken and somewhat grey.

The _next_ chore was to wash and shine all the windows in the house, which afforded her time to call the number, unobserved, from the living room telephone (which she dropped out the window and hid with behind a shrub). She rang off just before Petunia Dursley called her into the kitchen to make lunch (of which she was not allowed to eat anything, in retaliation for mucking up the wash) with a promise that the local children's welfare agency would send a Child Protection Team as soon as possible, and a reminder to call the police if she felt she was truly in immediate danger in the meanwhile. Then it was back to windows until it was time to serve tea to Petunia Dursley and her shrewish neighbors. She wore a smug smile inside, imagining their reactions when they found out that Harry Potter was made to sleep in a bloody cupboard.

At half past four, Ms. Melissa Prospect and Mr. Kenneth Gibbs knocked on the door, and the day finally started to look up.

_**Harry** _

Professor McGonagall gave her spiel, outlining all the options for a 'muggleborn' witch and why Hogwarts was clearly the best, then left the Grangers to consider what they should do next, asking them to send a form to the school by the end of the month with their decision.

Harry was feeling a bit overwhelmed, between waking up as a girl with a proper family and then finding out that the weird things he could do were _magic_. He had no doubt at all that that's what it _was_ , when he suddenly appeared on the school roof that one time, or turned his teacher's hair blue, and it _had_ to be magic talking to snakes, like at the zoo, because snakes simply didn't talk. And Hermione's parents seemed to think that she had had weird things happen, too. It didn't take much to put two and two together and figure that whatever was going on, if he suddenly had always been a girl, or if he had somehow switched places with one, that _that_ was magic, too.

That realization was immediately followed by a spike of fear – what if it wore off? Would he just go straight back to the Dursleys? And then guilt – was Hermione, the real Hermione, somehow stuck with them instead, right now? He hated living with them: Hermione's parents were _much_ nicer. But he wouldn't wish his life on her instead, just so _he_ could get out of it. He resolutely pushed that train of thought away. If it turned out Hermione was walking around in his body, somehow, there was nothing _he_ could think to do about it, seeing as he had no idea what had happened in the first place. And what if he told someone? They'd think he – or rather, Hermione – had gone mad.

The only thing to do, Harry realized, was to continue pretending to be Hermione, and enjoy it while it lasted. True, it was a little weird being a girl (okay, more than a little – he hadn't sat down to pee in _years_ ), but that was more than made up for by the bedroom, and the books and the food and the kind parents (though it was a little creepy how concerned they were over his education – was that _normal_?), and the complete lack of chores and Dudley and Dursleys in general. This could be, he thought optimistically, the best summer holiday he'd ever had.

That said, he was fully in favor of Hogwarts. Of course, it was probably much more likely that when he went to sleep, he would wake up in his own cupboard again, but on the off-chance that he didn't, he decided it would probably be easiest to pretend to be Hermione at a boarding school, far away from her overly-attentive parents.

Unfortunately the overly-attentive parents in question were very reluctant to have their daughter move so far away, for much the same reason they had been reluctant to let her move ahead a year in school – apparently they thought she was too stressed, and that it would be better to keep her close to home. Harry tried making the argument that boarding school would be a good opportunity to socialize, like they had said they wanted Hermione to do in the earlier meeting, but Mr. Granger had responded with an argument about the fact that Hogwarts didn't cover any normal subjects like English and maths, so after lunch, Harry had made a strategic retreat to Hermione's room under cover of having a sulk.

He didn't want to spend what might very well be his only day of freedom from his normal life arguing about whether he really needed to learn maths in the near or distant future. Instead, he lazed, reading a novel curled up in Hermione's enormous, fluffy bed, and then watching the neighborhood children playing some sort of game in the cul-de-sac outside her window. It was, all in all, _brilliant_.

_**Hermione** _

Hermione was Not Pleased. It hadn't been _too_ difficult to convince the Child Protection Team that Harry Potter was mistreated, nor, when she showed Mr. Gibbs the bruise on her ribs, that she feared his 'family's' retaliation for asking for help. She had been placed in protective custody for the duration of the investigation of the Dursleys, and taken to a rather rundown halfway-house sort of place, with four other children who were somehow involved in the foster-care system (she didn't really know how all of that worked – all that had been said in the school programme on child abuse was to call the children's welfare office or the police, or talk to a teacher if they or any of their friends were being hurt at home – and no one had sat down with her yet to explain what happened next) and a kindly if overworked matron. All in all, she felt, that was the best she could have hoped for, given the circumstances.

Prospect and Gibbs had almost bought Petunia's claims that Harry was a liar, and that they only asked him to do a bit of work around the house, especially since Hermione didn't _act_ like a habitually-abused child, but then they had found the cupboard under the stairs, and on returning home from work, Vernon had not been able to conceal his rage at finding officials investigating him for child abuse. It hadn't taken much acting at all to cringe fearfully away from the man who had thrown her into a wall just that morning.

Still, she was away from them now, and that was what mattered.

No, what she was _displeased_ about was the letter to Mr. H. Potter, addressed to the cupboard under the stairs and apparently hand-delivered, which she had stuffed into a pocket and forgotten about in the breakfast hubbub and her subsequent plans to call the authorities on the Dursleys. She didn't remember it until she was shucking off the ridiculously oversized clothes to wash what had to be at least two days' grime from Harry's too-skinny body. It crinkled, drawing her attention, and she sat on the toilet to read it while the room slowly filled with steam.

*~v^v~*

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall,_

_Deputy Headmistress_

*~^v^~*

She had taken rather longer than she otherwise might have done in the shower, considering the contents of the 'acceptance letter.'

She did not doubt the existence of magic as she might have done had the letter arrived one day earlier. Magic was, all things considered, a relatively reasonable explanation for why she had woken up as a boy and spent the day escaping his abusive relatives. Plus it would explain the small, otherwise inexplicable things that had slowly been driving her mad over the years – from pens appearing in her hand when she needed them to all the electrics flickering in time to her breathing and heartbeat last Christmas. (She couldn't wait to rub it in her parents' faces that she wasn't, in fact, going daft from stress, and that the psychologist they'd forced her to talk to was, as she had _told_ them after her very first appointment, full of shite.)

She didn't think much of wizards and witches, though. This was a bloody stupid way to find out about magic being real. There was no way the Dursleys had magic – there was something that _screamed_ boring and average about them. Even if they had, it was patently absurd to simply deliver a letter like this – it hardly counted as a _letter_ , anyway – the Headmaster's titles took up nearly as many lines as the body of it for heaven's sake – and expect a student to respond with their final decision on their schooling only a week and a half later. Where were the brochures? The _literature_? _Maidstone Grammar_ had put more effort into recruiting her, and they weren't even independent! And 'we await your owl?' Did they mean like the _bird_? What did _birds_ have to do with _anything_? Was there no way to meet this Headmaster or Deputy Head or even a _Professor_ to talk about the courses offered and the different _options_ for magical education? It didn't even say where the school was located or how to get there if she _did_ decide she wanted to attend!

The sad thing was, if things hadn't gone back to normal by morning, she was quite sure she _did_ want to, regardless of how utterly incompetent the school's management seemed, because who _outside_ of a magic school was going to believe that Hermione Granger, a girl whose parents owned a dental practice in Kent, had suddenly and mysteriously awoken in Surrey _as a boy_ , just in time to receive an invitation to said magical school?

Then there was the issue of what to do with the damn thing. She debated this for nearly fifteen minutes, standing under the hot spray and doing her best to ignore the _significant differences_ between this body and her own (so far as she was concerned, the only real _improvement_ was that Harry's hair seemed like it might be _slightly_ more manageable than hers). On the one hand, it didn't seem like the sort of thing she ought to be flashing around, and she had already realized that the other kids at the house were a nosy lot. Plus it was so brief as to be completely useless, and she'd already memorized it, which argued she ought to just throw it out. But on the other, it was addressed to _the cupboard under the stairs_ , and if she ever found a way to contact the school and get this mess sorted out, she wanted to show whomever was in charge and give them a piece of her mind about their delivery service not knocking on the bloody door when they saw an address like _that_.

By the time the hot water ran out, she had decided to keep the letter, but try to keep it out of sight if at all possible. She really didn't like it when people asked her questions she couldn't answer, and there was no way she could explain what it was all about, seeing as she had no idea herself. Fortunately, in the excitement of getting her settled in and then a (rather late) dinner, no one noticed that she had put on the same too-large trousers instead of the pocketless pajama bottoms she had been offered instead.

_**Harry** _

Harry Potter went to sleep in a large, comfortable bed just outside of Maidstone, in a room filled with more books than he had ever known one person to own, after what he thought easily qualified as the best day he had ever had. He was warm, well-fed, had been invited to a magical academy, and had somehow acquired parents who cared enough about his future that they were worried about how he would handle boarding school. They didn't give him any chores, and had even called him down for dinner even though he had argued with them and pretended to sulk all afternoon. Becoming a girl seemed a small price to pay for all that.

 _Please, please, please,_ he thought desperately as he fell asleep, _if this is a dream, don't let me wake up._

He was overjoyed in the morning to see that it was, apparently, still not a dream at all.

_**Hermione** _

Meanwhile, Hermione Granger drifted off with great difficulty, in a room with two "other" boys – one about her age and one at least a few years younger. The mattress was lumpy and the little one, Johnny, snored. She desperately hoped that when she woke up, she would be back in her familiar bedroom, or at least in her own body.

 _Failing that_ , she dictated to the universe, or God, or anyone who might be listening, _I'd_ rather appreciate _if someone from this magic school would actually show up so I can get this fixed as soon as possible!_

It would be a week and a half until _she_ got _her_ wish.


	3. Harry Potter's Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is ridiculously long, because I didn't actually write this story with chapters as such.

**Wednesday, 31 July 1991**

_**Harry** _

Harry woke early on what was, until nine days before, his birthday. He was sure that this would be the best birthday he had ever had, seeing as it wasn't about to be spent with the Dursleys, even if it likely wouldn't be celebrated any more than the last ten had been. No, the most important thing about the last day of July in the _Granger_ household was that it was the last possible day to send in the acceptance paperwork to Hogwarts.

On waking up the morning after what Harry was beginning to think of as That Day, and realizing that he was still in Hermione Granger's body, living Hermione Granger's life, he decided to embrace the weirdness. He had spent the last week getting to know her parents, begging and wheedling and negotiating to be allowed to go to Hogwarts, and they had, just the night before, agreed that they would send the paperwork to reserve a spot for their daughter in the incoming class, though they were still talking about other options when he had gone to bed, including a day-school called Merlin's Legacy Secondary and a French boarding school called Beauxbatons, which they'd found in a book called _An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe._ Deputy Headmistress McGonagall had (somewhat reluctantly) sent them the book by _owl,_ which the Grangers had found charming, but odd. Harry had thought it was wicked.

He was still pulling for Hogwarts, largely because he didn't speak a word of French. He gathered that Hermione did, however, and he was having trouble finding excuses to go to a school that was actually further away, in Scotland, without admitting that he 'didn't remember' any of it. Fortunately, the French academy also had a sort of primary school attached, so the Grangers were concerned that 'Year 7' or the equivalent might not be taught the basics properly if most students had had a magical primary education.

A soft knock at his door startled him, just before the handle turned. "Hermione? Are you awake?" Hermione's mother asked, entering cautiously.

"What? Um, yeah – that is, yes mum." It was still very strange calling anyone 'mum.'

"Why don't you come downstairs, then? Your father and I have something we'd like to talk to you about."

"Okaaay," Harry said, drawing the word out suspiciously. "Be right down."

Mrs. Granger grinned. "See you in a minute, then."

Harry donned the robe and slippers he'd found crushed at the back of Hermione's overly-full closet when he had first tidied her room properly. The Grangers had been a bit surprised that he had taken the time to do so, and even more surprised when he had moved on to the rest of the house and then the back garden, but what else was he supposed to do while they were at work? He had met the neighborhood children, too, and learnt their game (a sort of kickball version of cricket, which he was quite good at, if he said so himself, even in Hermione's body, which was rather less fit than his own), but they couldn't play all day, and he felt terribly guilty just sitting around reading novels when there was work that could be done. He found he didn't mind doing it, either. Mrs. Granger, Emma, worked far harder than Aunt Petunia, and had actually _thanked_ him for doing the laundry on Thursday.

He reached the kitchen only a few seconds behind Emma, to find that the adults had already eaten. Dan was pulling a plate of re-heated French toast out of the microwave for him.

"Thanks!" he exclaimed, still not used to the idea that Hermione's father did the cooking.

Both parents grinned. "Have a seat, love," Emma said, as she and her husband settled across from Harry.

"We're going to have to make this quick, Em," Dan announced, checking his watch. "We need to leave in about ten minutes."

"All right, Danny, don't fuss, we won't be late." She turned to Harry. "Hermione, your father and I are very impressed with how you've handled yourself this last week."

"You've been out making friends with the other kids."

"You've done all your chores and more – without me having to remind you."

"You haven't tried to use that as a bargaining chip," Dan added with a grin. His wife smacked his arm playfully.

"Don't give her ideas, Dan."

"You've made good arguments for Hogwarts, but even before that, you were willing to compromise on jumping ahead in your studies, which we both think shows a great improvement in your maturity since the end of last year."

"Um… thank you?" Harry tried tentatively. He hadn't really thought of his actions as mature at all – he had just been desperately trying not to draw attention to the fact that he wasn't really their daughter.

Dan smiled and winked, "I don't know what you've been thinking, kid, but keep up the good work."

Emma laughed. "Anyway, given that, and the fact that, in light of the fact that, well, Doctor Schmalle was obviously wrong about the reason behind your funny turns, if you really want Hogwarts, well…"

"You're going to let me go?!"

"I should hope so. I sent the papers off this morning," Dan joked.

Harry leapt up and ran around the table to throw his arms around the couple he was quickly coming to see as _his_ parents. "You two are the _best_!"

"There will be some conditions, though, Missy," Emma said, after returning the hug and kissing Harry on the side of his bushy head. "We want letters, every week!"

" _And_ we expect you to keep up with your normal studies as well," Dan added. "We'll not have our daughter failing her qualifications out here in the real world, just because she's suddenly discovered she's _also_ a witch."

"Done! I can do that!" Harry promised, his heart flying at the thought of learning magic.

"Good," Dan laughed, "because I've already sent off the papers for that, too – a correspondence course recommended by that wizards' ministry of theirs, covers O levels and A levels, so you'll be able to go to uni once you've got the magic thing under control."

Harry wasn't at all sure he wanted to go to uni if there was more magic to be learned after Hogwarts, but that was years away, and he did appreciate the fact that Dan was keeping all of his options open for him. He hadn't even known that was a thing, correspondence courses. Maybe he could catch up on the Year 7 stuff Hermione had learned but he hadn't, too. "Thanks, dad! That sounds brilliant!"

Dan ruffled his hair as Harry realized, "Does that mean we're going to Diagon Alley for all those books and robes and things?!"

"Not today, love," Emma said kindly. "Remember Professor McGonagall said there's a trip planned for students from our world? We'll meet up with them on Saturday."

"Promise?"

"We promise," Dan agreed. "Already arranged the day off. Boss is a bit of a stubborn wench, but I think I managed to convince her," he added with a wink. Harry giggled. Emma was in charge of scheduling for their practice, which they owned. It was easy for them to take a day off – they just had to re-schedule their appointments.

Emma gave him a fake glare, "Well, your boss is going to be very upset if you miss your first appointment, so we'd best get going."

Dan looked at his watch again and yelped. "You said we weren't going to be late!"

"The way you drive, we won't be," Emma smirked. "Bye, Jeanie. We'll be back in time for your father to make lasagna tonight."

"Alright," Harry agreed, allowing them each another hug. "Bye mum, bye dad! Have a good day!"

He locked the door behind them, before spending ten minutes dancing and sliding around the kitchen in Hermione's fuzzy pink slippers. _Best birthday_ _ever_ _!_ And it wasn't even seven, yet.

_**Dumbledore** _

Many hundreds of miles away, Albus Dumbledore meandered in what he considered a relatively casual, harmless way, from his own office, down the spiral staircase, down two more flights of stairs, through three corridors and up a small tower on the other side of the castle. The official office of the Deputy Head of Hogwarts appeared to be abandoned. Not entirely surprising, as it was only half-past six, and Minerva only maintained this office for the sake of formality, anyway, preferring the more centrally located Office of the Head of Transfiguration as her main base of operations.

"Minerva, are you in?" he called, just to be sure. There was no answer, so he let himself in and rifled through the papers on the desk until he located the one he was interested in: the Incoming Students list. So far, it appeared that thirty-seven of the forty-two invited students had responded with affirmative confirmations. He ran his finger down the list:

 _Patil, Patil, Perks, Rivers, Roper_ …

The one name he most wanted to see – the most important student who was to attend Hogwarts beginning this year – wasn't there.

He shuffled through the papers again, until he came to the Delivery Confirmation list. Harry Potter's name was listed there in green ink – he had, at the very least, received and opened his letter. (This, Dumbledore admitted, was slightly more surprising. He might have suspected the Dursleys of withholding it entirely, but not of allowing the boy to read it, and then failing to respond in any way.)

He steepled his fingers and tapped them against his lip, pacing the office as he pondered this problem: Harry Potter had to come to Hogwarts, and today was the acceptance deadline. Someone would simply have to go fetch him – the real question was _who_?

Properly speaking, it was Minerva's job to introduce new muggleborns to the magical world, but Harry Potter wasn't, properly speaking, a muggleborn. Plus there was the small matter of the fact that he had… heavily implied several years before that he had removed the boy from the Dursleys' care, 'as befit the Heir of the Noble House of Potter and the savior of Magical Britain.' His deputy would not be best pleased to discover that he had concealed the fact that he hadn't looked in on the boy in person in over five years, let alone moved him once the threat of imminent Death Eater attack had passed.

He could do it himself, but it had been nearly forty years since he had dealt with the muggle world in any capacity whatsoever, and while it might kindly dispose the boy toward him if he was the one who introduced him to magic, there was a distinct possibility that the Dursleys, whom he recalled having written several letters attempting to refuse the boy houseroom, would be belligerent if he were to appear on their doorstep. It would not be a good first impression.

Ideally it should be someone with more recent Muggle experience, anyway.

Pierce, the Muggle Studies professor, was a pureblood, and knew little more about muggles than the Examination Board demanded he teach. Pomona, of course, was muggleborn, but she was only a few years younger than he was himself, and it had been even longer since she had dealt with the muggle world. Septima would have been perfect – Albus vaguely recalled that the young Ravenclaw Arithmancy professor was muggle-raised. But she was at some advanced arithmancy conference on the continent.

He briefly considered ordering Severus to do it – making Severus deal with it was, he cheerfully admitted, his strategic response to any complex problem he didn't want to deal with himself. If by some miracle the lad survived the end of the war, he would be a capable successor as Headmaster eventually. Plus he was muggle-raised, as well. But no, either the Slytherin would have a fit on coming face to face with the boy who, when Albus had last checked, was growing into the spitting image of James Potter, or he would convince the boy to favor Slytherin, just to spite Albus. Maybe both.

Aurora was out for a similar reason – pity there were so few qualified astronomy instructors. He would love to dismiss the young hag. He had nothing against feminism as a general concept, but in practice, he found its practitioners _incredibly inconvenient_. She was still holding that whole nasty Stryke business from two years ago against him.

That left… Filius, perhaps? At least he knew about the difficulties of assimilating. But then, if Albus was going to send someone obviously not-human, he might as well send _Hagrid_. The half-giant would be strongly inclined to talk up both Albus and Gryffindor, at least. Actually… the more he thought of it, the more he liked that idea. There was certainly no one friendlier or more welcoming, and Albus was willing to bet that he would jump at the chance to re-introduce Harry to magic. He would probably tell the boy a few stories about his parents, have him begging to be a lion in no time at all.

Yes, Hagrid it would be.

Albus approached the Quill, vibrating slightly on its mirrored plinth, its scrying-spells, the strongest in Magical Britain, tuned specifically to identify the location of a given student (or potential student) at any time, and used the Headmaster's Override to obtain a new copy of Harry Potter's letter. The address, he noted, did not match the one in Surrey where he had left the babe, but the wards had not broken. Perhaps the family were on holiday? If so, that would go a good way to explaining why they hadn't yet responded, but it really was a matter of some urgency to attain that confirmation. He would send Hagrid anyway, he decided, and began to make his way out to the grounds, whistling merrily.

**_Hermione_ **

Hermione had been at the short-term home for just over a week. It was… vaguely unpleasant in nearly every possible way. Matron Caraway was far stricter than her parents, and there were more chores than she had to do at home, and only a few old, very careworn novels to read (none of which was new to Hermione). The beds were uncomfortable and the food was either bland or overcooked or both at every meal, and the building itself was rather run-down and dingy. The children were not allowed to go out without an adult, and Matron Caraway only ever went to Tesco's, so for the most part, they were all trapped in the house or its overgrown garden.

She had gotten to know Katie (who was fifteen and thought herself very grown-up) and Darnell (who was twelve, and had decided that 'Harry' was his new best friend), quite well as they explained how the foster system in general and Caraway House in particular worked, at least from the children's perspective. She had spent more than a few evenings hiding herself away in the bathroom or the garden, vacillating between tears and rage as she tried in vain to figure out what was happening to her and wondered if her parents were missing her, but on the whole, she thought she was coping quite well. She found it helped when she told herself that this was like falling into one of her fantasy novels. She just had to wait for whatever happened next to… happen.

On the second Wednesday of her stay, the day CPS's paperwork claimed was Harry Potter's eleventh birthday, at half-past eight, there was a strange knock at the door. It was, she thought, both unusually heavy and insistent, but oddly hesitant.

Hermione rolled her eyes and hauled herself off the sofa, abandoning her fourth re-read of an old Terry Pratchett novel. She couldn't really concentrate on it, anyway. "Got it!" she shouted to the house at large – though most of them were still abed – as she moved to the front hall. It was probably good that she did, as the man responsible for the loud-yet-hesitant knocking was decidedly unusual.

He was at least nine feet tall, and probably, Hermione thought, more than three feet wide. There was no way he would fit easily through a normal doorway. He was dressed in what seemed to be a hand-made fur overcoat, and enormous workman's trousers and boots. His hair and beard were dark, wild, and unkempt. He carried, rather incongruously, a flowered, pink umbrella, and what appeared to be a bakery box. She knew instinctively that he had something to do with _magic_.

"Harry Potter!" he boomed, as soon as Hermione opened the door, "Las' time I saw you, you was only a baby, but I'd know tha' face anywhere! Jes like yer dad, with yer mum's eyes."

Hermione peered closely at the enormous face, hovering high above her. Were those _tears_? "Forgive me," she said as politely as she could, "but I don't recall having been introduced?"

The giant man beamed, and held the box out to Hermione. She took it, and quickly found her whole right arm being shaken. "Th' name's Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys an' Grounds at Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts?! As in Hogwarts, school of Witchcraft and Wizardry?" Hermione asked. It made sense that he was magical, but the school had sent a _groundskeeper_ to tell her about it? And on the last possible day?

"Well, yeah. Don' reckon there's more'n one _Hogwarts_ out there…"

Hermione looked up and down the street. They were starting to draw attention from some of the neighbors, and she had a feeling that this was going to be a rather long discussion. "We should move to the garden," she said firmly, leading the bemused giant around the side of Caraway House to a pair of solid, concrete benches.

Once he had settled (and sitting, he was still slightly taller than Hermione standing), the man said, "So, yeh do know abou' Hogwarts, then? Dumbledore said you'd got yer letter, an' hadn' sent word back, so's he sen' me roun' ter check up on yeh. Got business in London, anyways, so I ken take yeh ter ge' yer things 's'well, if yeh like."

"All _I_ know," Hermione said tartly, "is what's written in that paltry excuse for a letter! ' _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.'_ " she quoted with a derisive snort. "Three sets of robes with nametags and a pointed hat _for daywear_ suggests that it's a boarding school, yes? And there are classes in astronomy, history, potions, magical theory, transfiguration, magical plants and animals, and some kind of self-defense course? But what about maths? English? Science? I was supposed to start Earth sciences this year! And where is this school, anyway? How many hours of classes are there per week, and how many students in each class? Are there houses? How often are home visits? Do you have telephones? I didn't see a number. And for _that_ matter, how was I supposed to let you know whether I wanted to attend or not? Today is the acceptance deadline, and you're the first representative I've spoken to. Why didn't they send a real professor? Um, no offence." Hermione stopped for breath, pacing before the big man in agitation. She couldn't really be expected to make a well-informed decision on so little information, could she?

Hagrid blinked. "Erm, so… yeh _don'_ know abou' Hogwarts, then?"

"NO! Isn't that what I've been saying? Listen, are there _other_ schools of magic? Because, again, no offence, but I can't say I think much of your school's professionalism. Though I suppose none of the others even _tried_ to get in contact, so… hmm."

"Harry Potter, _not_ go ter Hogwarts? Bu' yer name's been down ever since ye were born! The whole worl's expectin' ye ter come back!"

"The whole world? Why should anyone care where one tw – _eleven_ year old goes to school?" That was a close one. Her own birthday was in September, so she was almost a full year older than Harry.

Hagrid glowered. "Ain't those muggles ye live with tol' ye nothin'?"

"What's a muggle?" It sounded like a sort of sheep.

"Non-magic folk," the man glowered. "Like yer aunt an' uncle. Them _Dursleys_. Where are they, anyway? Dumbledore said they might make trouble."

"They're not in the picture," Hermione said firmly. "They were making me sleep in the cupboard under the stairs. I've been taken into child protection." At the look of surprise on the man's large, hairy face, she added, "Didn't you know? This is a foster home."

A clearly embarrassed, uncomfortable Hagrid pulled a parchment envelope out of a pocket and handed it over. "Tha's all I got," he said. "Dumbledore figured th' family was on vacation or summat."

Hermione snorted. Somehow she didn't think the Dursleys were the sort to go on vacation – not with Harry, at least. _This_ letter was addressed to 'Mr. H. Potter, The Boys' Bedroom, Caraway House, 17546 Ash Ave., Harringay, London.' When she broke the seal, however, the letter it contained was exactly the same. Hermione studied it silently for a moment while she marshalled her thoughts, re-running the last several minutes' conversation in her mind.

"You haven't answered my questions," she said sharply. "Why does anyone care where I go to school?"

"Wha – blimey, Harry, I – I shouldn' be th' one ter tell yeh, bu' someone has ter… Yer famous, in our world. In the magical world. Every witch an' wizard knows yer name – every child's grown up with stories abou' yeh. Harry Potter, not knowin' nothin' about magic – it'll be th' bigges' scandal…"

"What?" Hermione asked flatly. "Why am I famous?" Surely if Harry was _famous_ he wouldn't have been left to live with abusive relatives (and she definitely hadn't missed the fact that Hagrid had skirted over that little revelation). "Are you sure you haven't got the wrong Harry Potter?" she added.

"Naw, ye look jes' like James an' Lily, it's jus'… The muggles never tol' ye _nothin_ ' abou' yer parents?"

Hermione shook her head silently, thanking her lucky stars that the giant had given her an excuse for not knowing anything.

"Well, it's… it's like this. Blimey, this is difficult. Alrigh'. Back about twen'y years ago, now, there was a wizard who wen'… bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was…" Hagrid gulped, but no words came out.

" _Yes_?"

" _Voldemor'_ ," Hagrid whispered, looking around furtively.

"Sorry?"

"Voldemor'. Don' make me say it again!"

" _Vol de mort_?" Hermione repeated, putting a practiced French accent behind the name. "Flying from death? Or stealing from death? Something like that? That isn't his real name, is it?"

"Wha'?"

"Never mind. What about," she sniggered, "Monsieur Voldemort?"

"Don' _ye_ go sayin' th' name, either," Hagrid said sternly. "Call 'im You Know Who – everybody does."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Fine. What about _You Know Who_?"

" _Well_ , a bit more'n twen'y years ago, 'e started lookin' fer followers. Got 'em, too. Some were afraid. Some jes' wanted a bit o' 'is power, 'cause 'e was gettin' himself power, all right. Dark days, Harry. Didn' know who ter trust, didn' dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches… terrible things happened. He was takin' over. 'Course, some stood up to him – an' he killed 'em. Horribly. One o' the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore's the only one You Know Who was afraid of."

"The… Headmaster?" Hermione asked skeptically.

"Yeah," Hagrid beamed. "O'course! Great man, Dumbledore! Defeated Grindelwald back in th' day, didn' 'e? Righ' powerful wizard, an' leader o' th' Light!"

"O…kay…"

"Righ', so… yer mum an' dad were as good a witch an' wizard as I ever knew. Head boy an' girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the myst'ry is why You Know Who never tried to get 'em on his side before. Probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter wan' anythin' ter do with the Dark Side." Hermione suppressed a snort at the (most likely unintentional) Star Wars reference.

"Maybe he thought he could persuade 'em," Hagrid continued. "Maybe he jus' wanted 'em outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all livin', on Halloween, ten years ago. You was just a year old. He came ter yer house an'… an'…"

" _And_?"

Hagrid pulled a very large, very dirty, spotted handkerchief out of a pocket, and blew his nose with a sound like a foghorn.

"Sorry, bu' it's tha' sad. Knew yer mum an' dad, an' nicer people yeh couldn' find. Anyway. You Know Who killed 'em. An' then, an' this is the real myst'ry of the thing – he tried ter kill you, too. Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he jus' liked killin' by then. But he couldn' do it. Never wondered how you got that mark on yer forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That's what yeh get when a powerful, evil curse touches yeh. Took care of yer mum an' dad an' yer house, even – but it didn't work on you, an' that's why yer famous, Harry. No one ever lived after he decided ter kill 'em, no one except you, an' he'd killed some o' the best witches and wizards of the age – the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts – an' you was only a baby, an' you lived."

Hermione strongly considered saying ' _what?'_ again, but there was something dangerously close to hero-worship in the big man's eyes. Perhaps… later. She did feel for him, after all, having to tell his friends' son about their murder.

"Took yeh from the ruined house mesel', on Dumbledore's orders. Brought yeh ter, well…"

So it was _Dumbledore's_ fault that Famous Wizard Baby Harry Potter had been left with an abusive, non-magical aunt and uncle. That settled it – she would be going to Hogwarts, if only to have _words_ with this _Dumbledore_.

"So, ah… that's it, then? H – um, _my_ parents and M. Voleur all died on Halloween in… 1981? And the war was over? And H – I became famous, and was left to be raised by, what did you call them? Mumbles?"

"Muggles," Hagrid corrected. "An', well, You Know Who, 'e disappeared. Vanished. Makes ye' even more famous. An' yeah, there's some as says 'e's dead. Codswallop, in my opinion. Don' reckon e' had enough human left in 'im ter die. An' others say 'e's still ou' there, bidin' 'is time, like. Don' believe tha', neither. People who was on his side came back ter ours. Some of 'em came outta kinda trances. Don' reckon they could've done if he was comin' back. Most of us reckon he's still out there, somewhere, but lost his powers. Too weak to carry on. 'Cause somethin' abou' you finished 'im, Harry. There was somethin' goin' on that night he hadn't counted on. Dunno what it was – no one does – but somethin' about you stumped him, all righ'."

Hermione refrained, with difficulty, from rolling her eyes. Something going on of a Halloween that the evil wizard hadn't accounted for, _that_ she could possibly believe. But that he had been defeated by a one-year-old baby? _Fat. Chance_. And how could someone 'not have enough human left in him to die'? She would, she thought, have to ask this Dumbledore when she caught up to him.

Hagrid was looking at her with that same almost-worshipful expression, and the silence between them was becoming awkward, but she didn't really know what to say, mostly because she wasn't really Harry Potter, and it wasn't _her_ parents' deaths he had been telling her about. "Okay, then… um… thanks for telling me?"

The giant nodded. "'s the leas' I could do fer yeh."

"Um… right. So, about Hogwarts?" she asked awkwardly.

"Bes' school o' magic there is!" Hagrid said proudly, obviously pleased for the subject change.

Hermione sighed. Of course he would say that. "And I don't suppose you can answer any of my questions about classes or the like? What about tuition and fees? Are there scholarships and the like for orphans? Because I haven't got any money."

"D'yeh not think yer parent's left ye nothin'? Tuition's paid – nobody'd turn away Harry Potter. An' I got yer Gringott's key with me. Wizards' bank, ye know."

"Um… no? Why've you got my key?"

"Well, Dumbledore gave it ter me, didn' 'e? Got ter make a stop in fer 'im, as well. Hogwarts business."

"Why did _Dumbledore_ , oh, _never mind_." That was just one more thing to add to her growing mental list. "So you've just popped in to take me shopping for school supplies, is that it? Not to actually tell me anything about the school, or ask whether I'd even like to go?" Not that she was opposed, but the implication that she didn't have any sort of choice in the matter was infuriating.

"Wha – don' yeh _wan'_ ter learn magic?"

Hermione sighed at the man's baffled expression. _Utterly useless._ "Of course I do. Hang on, I'll go tell Ms. Caraway that I'm going out."

She stomped into the house, thinking quickly as she dropped off what turned out to be a chocolate cake in the kitchen. What would be an acceptable excuse to go out? She had already been to the doctor, the dentist, the optometrist and the child psychologist, so none of them would do… And how was she to deal with the logistics of actually going to a boarding school on the first of September? Surely someone would notice she had gone missing? Did the wizards have a solution for that? She would have to find someone more official to ask. Hagrid seemed nice enough, but he _was_ just a groundskeeper, and he didn't seem to know _anything_ about the actual details of _going_ to the school.

"Ms. Caraway? A Mr. Hagrid from the Little Whinging Police Department is here. They need me to come answer some more questions about, um…"

The old woman in charge of the house smiled warmly at Hermione. "Of course, dear. Did they say when they'd be bringing you back?"

"Well," Hermione hedged, "I should expect it will be late, since it's, um, a bit of a drive. I shouldn't wait dinner. I'm sure they'll feed me at the station, you know, if need be."

"All right, then. Best of luck." Hermione fancied there was something like pity in the matron's eyes as she fled the room.

…

Travelling to London was a nightmare. Hagrid was oddly reticent about how he'd managed to get to Caraway House, which suggested to Hermione that he'd done something he wasn't supposed to, but she couldn't imagine what that was. Instead of whatever mysterious, forbidden mode of travel he had used before, they took the train in, and then the underground. Both were full of commuters who couldn't help but stare at the enormous man in his enormous fur coat. Hermione had to do all of the navigating between lines, and deal with the money, which Hagrid complained all looked the same. It was with great relief that she eventually led him up a broken escalator at Charring Cross Road.

"Where to now, Hagrid?" she asked, any honorifics long since lost to her irritation with her oversized escort.

"This way," he said, obviously recognizing his surroundings. He parted the crowd easily, and Hermione trailed in his wake. "This is it," he said eventually, coming to a halt in front of a rather grubby-looking pub. "The Leaky Cauldron. It's a famous place." Hermione didn't have it in her to ask why.

The inside didn't look much better than the outside. It was dark and shabby. A few young women were sitting at a table near the back door, sipping tea, surrounded by shopping bags. A tiny man in a lavender top hat was talking to the old, bald bartender. The low buzz of chatter stopped when they walked in, as everyone looked around to greet Hagrid. He was, apparently, a regular.

"The usual, Hagrid?" the barkeep asked, already reaching for a glass.

"It's not even ten," Hermione said, slightly appalled.

Hagrid patted her reassuringly on the back, which sent her staggering forward. "Can't anyway, Tom, I'm on Hogwarts business."

And then Tom spotted Hermione. "Good Lord. Is this – can this be? Bless my soul, Harry Potter, what an honor." He tottered around the bar and grabbed Hermione's hand moistly, tears in his eyes. "Welcome back, Mr. Potter. Welcome back!"

"Thank you, sir," Hermione said stiffly, resisting the urge to wipe her hand on her shirt. Everyone was staring at her. This was not exactly a _new_ sensation – she was notorious at school for being the smartest girl in Year 7 (and possibly Year 8 as well), which attracted a certain amount of attention – but it was still awkward for so many adults to be staring so intently, all at once. And then there was a great scraping of chairs, and she was passed from one person to the next, their names washing over her in a blur as they seized her hand and touched her shoulders and looked at her in awe. It was, in a word, horrifying.

Mrs. Crockford, Mr. Brown, Mrs. Abbott, Mrs. Madden, and Mr. Diggle all crowded around, shouting, for nearly ten minutes before Hagrid bellowed over the crowd, "Must get on, lots ter buy. Come on, Harry," and led Hermione out the back door of the bar, into a small walled courtyard, which contained nothing but a trash can and a few weeds.

"Told yeh, didn't I? Told yeh you was famous." Hagrid was grinning broadly.

Hermione scowled. "Yes, you did. Was that _necessary?_ "

"Wha'?" Hagrid looked innocently confused.

"The whole, 'I've brought your savior back to you' thing?"

"Wha'd'yeh mean?"

"Oh, never mind. Where do we go from here?"

Hagrid grinned again. "Jes' watch." He counted three bricks up from the trash can and two over, then tapped that one with the point of his umbrella. It quivered and wriggled, a small hole appearing in the center, growing wider and wider until, a few seconds later, they were standing before an archway, large enough even for Hagrid. On the other side was a cobblestone street, full of people. Hermione gaped.

"Welcome," said Hagrid, "to Diagon Alley!"

There was too much to see – it was simply overwhelming. Hermione's eyes roamed over the alley and its people (all in robes, with pointed hats and canes, or dresses that looked positively Victorian), cataloguing the items for sale (cauldrons, dragon liver, owls – what was _with_ the _owls_ , anyway? – robes, telescopes, flying broomsticks, spell books, quills, parchment), the shop-fronts and the street (almost but not quite like the architecture from the 1600s – it was all too… neat – symmetrical and tidy, like a movie set, perhaps), and the signs (all hand-painted in style, but flashing lights or changing colors, drawing as much attention as possible to each stall), as she absently followed Hagrid toward a white marble building with enormous bronze doors.

"Gringotts," the giant announced, as she took a double-take at the door-guards: swarthy… creatures, about a head shorter than Harry, with sharp, clever faces, very long fingers and extremely sharp-looking bronze spears. "Goblins," Hagrid said, in a voice that was likely meant to be quiet, but which the nearest goblin clearly overheard. He – at least, she assumed he was a he, given the small, pointed beard – leered and gave them what she considered to be a mockingly ornate bow as they passed through the doors. Inside was a second set of doors – these covered in silver, with a word of warning engraved upon them. The second set of guards bowed much more simply.

Inside _these_ doors was a great hall with a long counter along one side and mirrors on each end, where at least two dozen more goblins sat assessing precious stones, weighing gold, and writing in ledgers. There were thirteen doors along the other wall, with people – human people – being escorted in and out of them. Hagrid led Hermione to the counter and a free teller.

"Mornin'," he said gruffly. "We've come ter take some money outta Mr. Harry Potter's vault."

"You have his key, sir?" the goblin asked disinterestedly.

As Hagrid emptied his pockets looking for the key in question, something occurred to Hermione. She stepped forward, slightly hesitantly. "Excuse me, sir?"

The goblin leaned forward and peered closely at her. "Mr. Potter?"

"Um… could I get a copy of my account history?" Hermione had a savings account at home, in her own name, though her parents were co-signatories. They wanted her to learn how to manage money properly, and had set it up for her when she turned ten. It had about two-hundred pounds in it, and they received a statement every three months noting that a small amount of interest had been added, which she then had to copy into an account book. Her mother had showed her the family accounts once, and the business accounts, which were much larger and more complicated, but worked on the same principle.

"Can you prove your identity?"

"Hang on a mo', I know it's here, somewhere," Hagrid said techily.

"How would I do that?" Hermione asked. She certainly didn't have a birth certificate or the like.

The teller gave her a very pointed grin. "Sinkshaft!" he shouted, and another goblin appeared behind Hermione, like magic, slightly out of breath.

"Sir?"

"Fetch the boy to Reaper," the teller ordered.

Sinkshaft saluted and gestured for Hermione to follow.

"Hang on!" Hagrid objected. "Got it!"

Sinkshaft plucked a small golden key from the giant's hand. "If you will follow me, Mr. Potter?"

"Ain't no need for all tha', now," Hagrid objected. "'e is who 'e says 'e is! We jes' need ter make a withdrawal, an' I got a letter here about the You Know What in vault seven-hundred and thirteen." He passed it over.

"But what about the statement?" Hermione asked.

"We can only release account details to verified vault signatories or their legal guardians," the teller said officiously, looking over the letter.

"Right," she said firmly, "then I want to get verified." She continued speaking over Hagrid's objections. "It's not _responsible_ to make withdrawals without knowing how much money I've _got_ in the first place!"

The goblins gave her a look of approval. Hagrid harrumphed.

"We can deal with the _other_ business while my colleague tends to Mr. Potter's verification," the teller said impatiently.

"Fine," the giant grumbled. "I'll be waitin' out on the steps when yer done."

…

Another goblin was called over to take Hagrid to vault seven thirteen, while Hermione followed Sinkshaft through a series of hallways to an office marked _Senior Inheritance Councilor Reaper_.

Reaper was a brusque, taciturn, female goblin. She sliced Hermione's hand with an obsidian-bladed scalpel. Blood dripped into a copper bowl, which was set in the middle of a seven-pointed star, and then Reaper chanted something over it in a rough, babbling language until it glowed white and cooled to a black ash. Water – or something that looked like water – was added to this to create a jet-black ink. Hermione watched with a rapt fascination – this was the first thing she had seen that she thought truly qualified as a _magic spell_.

Then the goblin poured the ink onto a sheet of parchment, where it traced out what Hermione vaguely recognized as Harry Potter's family tree, with his full name at the top (Henry James Potter), followed by James Charles Potter and Lily Irene Evans, and then grandparents and great-grandparents she had never heard of. Most of them – James, Lily, all of James' parents and grandparents, plus both of Lily's parents, and one of her grandparents, were underlined, though neither Reaper nor Sinkshaft answered when she asked what that meant.

Reaper sighed, looking Hermione in the eye for a long moment, before she announced, "Mr. Potter's identity has been verified." She then took a very sharp-looking quill, scrawled a signature in reddish ink at the bottom of the parchment, and impressed a wax seal with a ring from her third finger. "Take this to Account Manager Piedmont," she instructed Sinkshaft, who sighed and shifted awkwardly, but did take the family tree.

"Um, thank you," Hermione offered, as she was bustled out of the room. A dry bark of laughter followed her into the corridor. She hurried to keep pace with Sinkshaft, whose posture held every indication of a doom he wished to have done with as soon as possible. He knocked lightly on the name-plate of _Senior Accounts Manager Piedmont_ , and tapped his toe anxiously as he waited.

"Come in," a genial voice called.

"Verified Heir of the Potter Estate, Senior Accounts Manager," Sinkshaft announced without preamble, leading Hermione into the office.

"Indeed?"

"Yes, sir." The younger goblin handed over the signed family tree.

" _Ran alokaya_!" the elder exclaimed, clicking his tongue. " _Asvaenna turat_?"

" _Ooba_."

The Account Manager cleared his throat. "Very well, then. You may return to your post, Escort Sinkshaft."

The younger goblin saluted and vanished without another word. The elder grinned. "What can I help you with today, Master Potter?"

"Oh! I just wanted a copy of my most recent account statement. I only just found out that I had an account, you see, and it didn't seem right to make a withdrawal for robes and school supplies and things without looking at the account balance first."

The goblin began to laugh at that, long and hard. There were tears in his eyes when he finally regained control of himself. "My dear Master Potter, your school supplies will hardly make a dent in your trust fund, I assure you. A moment." He turned to a filing cabinet built into the back wall of the office, and fished out a thick portfolio. " _This_ is the most recent accounting of the Potter Estate. Harry Potter Trust Vault, Potter Family Vault, Lily Evans' Vault, investment reports, property deeds and management reports, as well as a summary report on vaults and sums donated to Harry Potter or the Potter Family after the fall of the Dark Lord in 1981 – you are familiar with this?"

"M. Voleur? Passingly," she said faintly, rifling through the file. Good God, it was even more complicated than the business accounts.

The goblin nodded approvingly. "Clan Gringott does not think kindly of thieves, even those who steal from death and not goblins. The vaults and sums donated in the wake of his fall have been concentrated in an annex of the Potter Family Vault, complete with registry of which families and individuals chose to express their gratitude thusly."

"And, um… how much is that, exactly?"

"Donations total 23,459 galleons. Your assets as a whole are valued in the realm of one-million six, of which approximately four hundred thousand is accounted for in coin, gold, gems, and other liquid wealth, four hundred fifty thousand is assessed from the anticipated value of various artifacts, books, and so on should the estate go to auction, three hundred fifty in properties owned, both those reserved for use by the Potter family, and those which include tenant incomes, and approximately four hundred thousand which could be raised by sale of interests in various magical and muggle businesses.

"The annual income from properties is in the realm of an additional one-hundred thousand, but much of that is re-invested in upkeep, for an annual net return ranging from four to eight percent of that sum, of which fifty percent is owed to various managers including Gringott's. The annual return on business investments approximates seven percent of the invested capital, of which the goblin nation takes twenty-five percent as a brokerage fee. Your total annual income, paid to the Potter Family Vault, is therefore generally between twenty-two and twenty-four thousand galleons.

"You, as a minor, have theoretical access to approximately fifty-thousand in coin only, which is contained in your trust vault. There is, however, a cap on withdrawals: five-hundred galleons per month, not to exceed three-thousand galleons per year. Until you reach your legal majority at seventeen, you will not have access to the Family Vault or any of its contents."

Hermione was certain her mouth was gaping. "How much is that in pounds?" she asked faintly, still fixed on the initial number: 1.6 million galleons.

"The exchange rate has been fixed at five to one."

"Five galleons to a pound?" Three-hundred twenty thousand pounds was nothing to sneeze at, but far less overwhelming than she had initially thought.

The goblin smiled pointedly. "Five pounds to a galleon."

"Th-that's… Oh my God! Eight _million_ pounds? Madness!" It was like winning the bloody lottery.

"Indeed. Of which you have access to approximately fifty-thousand galleons, or –"

"That's still a quarter of a million pounds!"

"Correct. You, or anyone who has access to your key, are authorized to make withdrawals from the Harry Potter Trust Vault. It is intended to pay for your care and keeping until you reach your majority, upon which time as the Head of House Potter, you will gain full control over the entire estate. There have been no withdrawals since the inception of the Trust Vault. As your godparents have been found unfit, and your guardianship has reverted to the Office of Child Welfare, Gringott's has acted as the financial steward of the Potter estate since 1981, in accordance with the retainer agreement between the family and my predecessor signed by Charlus Potter in 1957. James Potter chose not to re-negotiate upon his father's death."

"Um, godparents?"

"Sirius Black is in Azkaban Prison. As his godson, and in lieu of other heirs, you will inherit his estate when he dies. Alice Longbottom nee Diggory is in long term care at St. Mungo's hospital. Her son, the Heir of Longbottom, will inherit her estate when she passes."

"Oh, um… okay."

The goblin gave her a reassuring smile. "It is traditional for young wizards of a certain status to begin to monitor their families' finances at the age of recognition, which is to say, thirteen years. And until your majority, unless you appoint or are appointed a guardian in the Magical World who agrees to take full responsibilities as the Potter Regent, you may rest assured that your estate is safe in goblin hands. We have every incentive to increase your holdings, as we receive a percentage commission of investment income. We will also assess your magical inheritance at that time, to determine whether you may legitimately make a claim on any vaults to which you are not the obvious and declared blood heir."

Hermione's head was whirling at this new influx of information. "Ah, alright. So I don't have to do anything right now, then?"

"Indeed not, Master Potter."

"Can I find out how many keys I have, and where they are?" she asked, suddenly recalling that the small part of the fortune she _did_ have access to was strangely vulnerable in that way.

"There is only one key, and it was delivered to me by Escort Sinkshaft," Piedmont informed her, sliding the key across the desk with a single, very long finger. It had, she noted absently, an extra knuckle.

She picked up the key. "Thank you. I, um… I think I should probably go make that withdrawal, now, and catch up with Hagrid."

"I will escort you," the Account Manager said decisively, and rounded the desk to lead her through yet more long, windowless corridors.

After several minutes, they reached a stone passageway with tracks embedded into the floor. At the goblin's whistle, a small cart came hurtling at them out of the darkness. They climbed in, and it sped off again at once. Hermione shrieked. It was very much like riding a roller coaster, but without the safety harnesses and proper seats, and, she thought, feeling rather ill, _sharper turns_. Piedmont, who, she reflected, seemed much easier-going than the other goblins, just laughed. Eventually the cart stopped beside a small door in a passage wall. Piedmont allowed Hermione to open the door, revealing a billow of green smoke ("Not poisonous, just verifying there's been no tampering.") and then mounds of gold, columns of silver, and heaps of little bronze coins.

The goblin helpfully explained the un-decimalized mess that was the magical currency situation, and advised her to take a rather large selection of coins, though, he noted, she could also allow shopkeepers to call directly on her trust vault with her key and a signature to the monthly limit, as a sort of bank-draft. This, she thought, was very exciting – she couldn't write cheques from the account her parents had set up – not to mention _very useful_. Then it was back in the cart.

Perhaps three-quarters of an hour after she followed Sinkshaft away from the teller's counters, she returned to the great marble entry hall. Hagrid was not, she discovered, on the steps where he had promised to wait. This was, she decided, terribly rude of him, especially when the door guard (he of the elaborate bow) informed her that the giant had gone back to the Leaky for a drink, having assumed that she would take 'bloody ages' with whatever the goblins were having her do, and he had business to take care of for Dumbledore.

It was a rather irritable Hermione who pulled out Harry Potter's school list and decided to start at the beginning – with the uniform. She headed resolutely toward the nearest robe shop, Madam Malkin's, determined not to become distracted by the wealth of magical shops and stalls around her. Perhaps after she had located the required items, she would take a break and make a list of non-required essentials that she would need for boarding, and figure out how she was to hide all this from Ms. Caraway, and how she was to get it all back to Caraway House. She sighed. It was probably for the best that Hagrid had abandoned her. He was very conspicuous, and probably wouldn't have been any help with the logistics of it all, anyway.

…

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve.

"Hogwarts, dear?" she said, as soon as Hermione opened her mouth. "Got the lot here – another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long, black robes. Madam Malkin stood Hermione on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over her head, and started pinning it to the right length.

"Hello," the boy said politely. "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," Hermione answered, somewhat hesitantly.

"My father's next door buying my books, and mother's up the street looking at wands," he drawled in a bored voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one, and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

Hermione sniggered at his obvious attempts to impress her. "Haven't you already got one?" From the way he talked so casually about acquiring it, she would be surprised if he hadn't.

"Yes, well, my _old_ broom is a Nimbus 1750, but they've come out with a _new_ one – the 2000. No point if you can't have the best, is there? What do you fly?"

"Um, I don't," Hermione said with a small shudder at the thought. It couldn't be worse than the Gringotts' cart, could it?

The blond looked baffled for a moment, but rallied quickly enough. "Do you know what house you'll be in yet?"

Hermione rolled her eyes expressively. "I don't even know what they _are_. Can you believe they sent a bloody _groundskeeper_ to tell me about it? I couldn't believe the unprofessionalism."

"A _groundskeeper?_ Like a _servant_?" the boy gaped. Hermione gathered he came from a family much richer than her own.

" _Yes_ , Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds. So I hardly know anything about the school. As soon as I look the part, I'm for the book store. There has got to be _some_ literature on the bloody school _somewhere._ "

An odd look, one part horror, one part disgust, and perhaps a very small part pity, flashed over the boy's face. "Where're your parents? Are you, _you know_?"

"Um, no, I don't know. Is this another of those You Know Who things?"

"Your parents… they're our sort, aren't they?"

"Our sort?"

"Magical." The boy looked a bit horrified, as though he already knew the answer, and didn't like it.

Hermione hesitated. Her parents weren't, of course, but Harry Potter's were. "Yes."

The blond's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What's your surname?"

"Potter. Harry James Potter, if you _must_ know." Then she added, in her poshest tone, "Though I say, there has to be a politer way to solicit an introduction!" The shop assistant now casting some sort of spell at the blond's new robes, bit her lip to stifle a smirk, her eyes drawn to Hermione's face. She blushed and looked away quickly.

The boy went very red, and his eyes raked over Hermione's hairline, but then he said, "Malfoy. Draco Malfoy," and held out a hand. She took it. It would have been terribly rude not to, especially since she'd just drawn attention to his own poor manners. "I thought you'd be taller," he said, still a bit pink.

Hermione, with an entire lifetime of being picked on for her bushy hair and buckteeth as well as her intelligence behind her, bristled, and snapped back without thinking: "Well, I had no expectations of you whatsoever, and yet you've also managed to disappoint." Draco went red again, this time a more blustery shade, but before he could explode, Hermione relented with a sigh. He probably hadn't _meant_ to be rude. "Look… It's fine. You haven't been nearly as rude as Hagrid, or most of the folks in the Leaky Cauldron. ' _Oh, Mr. Potter, so glad to have you back, Mr. Potter, so proud, Harry, can I call you Harry, take a photo with me, Mr. Potter, please_ ,'" she imitated the earlier crowd. "Sycophants."

Draco snorted, but apparently he was sufficiently amused to attempt to continue the conversation. "So where have you been all these years? They say Dumbledore's had you hidden away. I'm surprised he let you out alone."

"Well, I did say my escort's not very good, didn't I? He left me at the bank to go have a nip, the bloody oaf. I've been living with muggles, and yes, so far as I can tell, it _is_ Dumbledore's fault. I've known about magic for a week and a half, and about the fact that I'm famous since about half-past eight this morning."

The boy was now obviously torn between horror and fascination. "What's it like, living with muggles? Are they horrible? How can you stand not knowing about _magic_?"

She couldn't bring herself to tar her parents and all other muggles with the same brush as the Dursleys. "Some are better than others, as you might imagine. They are _people_ , after all. And we have electricity and all sorts of technology to make up for not having magic, plus, I never knew, so I didn't miss it. Having accidental magic and not knowing what it was, was a bit scary. I thought I was going mad for ages. But, you know, that's sorted, now, obviously."

"So you don't know _anything_?"

Hermione glared at him. "I know plenty of things. Maths, history, English, biology… I just don't know about magic. _Yet_." The effect of her glare was rather ruined by Madam Malkin pulling her second finished robe over her head. " _Bother_ ," she muttered under her breath.

Draco sniggered.

"I think I'm going to like you. Call me Draco," he offered magnanimously, a few minutes later.

Hermione rolled this around in her mind for a moment. "You can call me Jamie," she said. It was, at least, somewhat androgynous, and less immediately recognizable than Harry.

"Jamie, then. Since you've been so callously and _unprofessionally_ abandoned, would you like to join my parents and me for the rest of the day?"

"I would like that very much, Draco."

"That's you done, dear," Madam Malkin said, whipping Hermione's third set of robes off. She remained awkwardly on the stool, unsure of how to phrase her request.

"Don't be absurd, Madam Malkin," Draco drawled. "This is _Harry Potter_. He's been living with _muggles_ all his life. He _obviously_ needs a full wardrobe, not just new school robes." He winked at Hermione.

"Draco is quite correct, Madam Malkin," she said primly, mouthing _thank-you_ at the boy.

"You're done as well, Master Malfoy," his assistant said, adding a fifth robe to the pile beside Draco's stool.

"Excellent. Put them on mother's tab, Miss Blythe, for delivery. C'mon, Jamie, I'll show you how proper wizards dress," he added, grabbing Hermione by the hand and pulling her over to a mannequin. She followed only slightly reluctantly, sending wistful glances at the grown-up witches' robes on display – they looked like the sort of thing a fairy princess would wear. The mens' robes, in contrast, just looked like old-fashioned judges' robes, or perhaps university graduation robes, though they were still fancier than the plain black students' robes of their uniforms.

…

By the time Draco's parents showed up, wondering what on Earth had happened to their son, he had managed to get Hermione outfitted with trousers, button-up shirts, vests, ties, and several non-school-uniform over-robes, and they were arguing over whether an eleven-year-old really needed a waistcoat for special occasions. Narcissa, Lady Malfoy, whom Hermione gathered was somewhat like an MP, agreed with her that the answer was no. Lucius, Lord Malfoy, whose manner screamed busy, high-powered London exec (and whose son's obvious hero-worship suggested this was a rare day off in the general vicinity of his family), looked positively sly as he reiterated Draco's invitation to join the Malfoy family to complete their school shopping. He even volunteered to take the boys to a shop for underclothes and nightclothes while Narcissa visited the bank.

After a trip to the promised shop, and a cobbler, when Hermione admitted that she only had a pair of ratty old trainers to wear, she and the Malfoy men met up with the lady of the family, and were summarily swept into and out of a number of shops almost too quickly for Hermione to form an impression. Draco prattled about school and the houses – particularly Slytherin – the teachers they were likely to have, the lessons he had _already_ had, and his favorite thing in the world: Quidditch. Narcissa was far more informative when it came to useful information, like how to get to school in the first place, and how to contact the school – owl- _post,_ like carrier pigeons! – the number of classes and hours per week and student to teacher ratios. It seemed that anyone who was anyone in Magical Britain had attended at one point or another. Lucius' contribution seemed to be standing around looking haughty, coupled with the occasional witty observation on the others' running commentary. He was the one who explained to the trunk-maker exactly what specifications her trunk needed to avoid detection by muggles, however, and he offered to see what he could do about getting her fostered by a magical family instead.

"Narcissa is, after all, a distant cousin of yours," he said, with an absolutely insincere smile.

Narcissa's was much more genuine. " _Very_ distant cousins. Your grandmother was my fifth-cousin, I believe, through the Blacks."

"But if he had gone to his godfather…"

"Sirius Black? The one who's in prison?"

Narcissa flushed faintly. "He's a first-cousin, and an embarrassment to the family, but yes, if you had been in his custody when, well… you would likely have been placed with his mother or with us."

"I'd choose us!" Draco piped up rather loudly. "Auntie Walburga's a hag."

" _Draco Scorpius Malfoy_!" his mother hissed. His father looked faintly amused. "What have I told you about watching your tongue in public?"

He looked around quickly to see if he had been overheard, then hung his head and said, "Sorry, mother." As soon as she turned to her husband, however, he whispered to Hermione, "But she really is." Hermione bit her lip hard to keep from laughing aloud.

It was shortly after that that the Malfoys decided to treat Hermione to a late lunch. They found a café with a balcony overlooking the street, and had just placed their orders when they were rudely interrupted by a very tall man with a long silver beard.

_**Dumbledore** _

The flames in Albus' office floo turned green, and a large, shaggy head appeared within them.

"Ah, Hagrid," he beamed. "Have you collected the package?"

"Yessir, Professor. Got it righ' here."

"Right, well, remember, you have to travel overland to bring it here. Floo transport will damage it."

"Reckon it shouldn't be too hard. Got young Harry ter explain 'ow the trains an' the money work on the way 'ere."

"Very good, very good. So you've found him?"

"'Course I did! Wasn' with those Dursleys, anymore, though. 'e was at a foster 'ome in London – said they'd been abusin' 'im," Hagrid reported with a glare at the Headmaster.

Albus felt himself blanch. Harry couldn't be allowed to leave the Dursleys! The blood wards would break the second he left their home for good. "I – I'm sure it's just some childish misunderstanding," he reassured the half-giant. "I'll get everything sorted out."

Hagrid grinned. "Knew you would."

"Where is Harry now, Hagrid?" he asked urgently.

"Well, 'e insisted on gettin' the goblins ter verify 'im as the Heir of Potter, so I left 'em at the bank ter get on with it while I nipped back 'ere to the Leaky ter let yeh know I'd got… the You Know What."

"You left Harry Potter _alone_ in Diagon Alley? Hagrid! Go find him! Right now!"

"Er… yessir," Hagrid said, his face vanishing from the flames even as Albus turned nervously to the instruments that monitored Harry Potter's health and welfare. They seemed as lively as ever. There had even been a bit of an up-tick in their activity lately, probably since the boy had gotten his Hogwarts letter.

Albus settled back into dealing with a series of urgent messages from the ICW, precipitated by his early return from the annual meeting. It wasn't _his_ fault that the Wizengamot had demanded his presence, after all – and everyone knew that the ICW representatives had a duty first and foremost to their home countries. Sometimes he wondered if being involved in international politics was really worth it.

Two hours later, as he was answering the German Minister's representative's attempt to sabotage Magical Britain's bid to host the 1994 QWC Final ("No, Gresham, I am certain that Magical Britain will be fully prepared – hate crimes are at an all-time low, and I have no concerns whatsoever about the capability of our Department of Magical Law Enforcement to maintain security at the event.") when Hagrid's shaggy head reappeared. He looked rather panicked.

"Hagrid!"

"I can't find 'im, sir!"

"Hagrid, calm down!"

"The goblins said 'e took off jes' b'fore I got back, headed toward Knockturn! I been lookin' an' askin', but ain't no one admittin' ter seein' 'im down tha' way, an' no sign of a struggle or naught! What do I do, Per'fesser?"

"Hagrid, I need you to _remain calm_. Wait for me at the Leaky. I'll be there in…" he looked to Fawkes, shabby and molting. Too close to a burning day to go flashing about. _Damn and blast!_ "Fifteen minutes." It would take that long to reach the edges of the wards, but then he could apparate to the gentle giant's side.

He threw his quill down and caught up a simple Sympathetic Focus he had created years ago for just such an event – with the bit of Harry's hair within it, he would be able to track the boy through anything short of a Fidelius or Old Family wards, alive or dead. Then he made all possible haste toward the gates.

He was only too relieved to find the boy sitting on an open balcony at the Glass Octopus Café. He was in the company of the Malfoys, yes, but it could have been much worse – they _could_ have taken him to Malfoy Manor, from which even Albus himself would have been hard-pressed to retrieve him.

Now, all he had to do was convince the boy to come with him, so that he could be returned to his aunt and uncle, preferably without alerting the child to the danger his luncheon companions posed. He would _hate_ for this to turn into some sort of… hostage situation.

He took a deep breath.

"Harry, my dear boy! Here you are! Hagrid's been worried sick! He's waiting downstairs. If you'd like to join us, we can, I'm sure, conclude your shopping in no time at all, and get you back to your aunt and uncle, where you belong!"

_**Hermione** _

The wizard took a deep breath and fixed an entirely false-looking pleasant smile on his face before saying, in an equally-fake, jovial tone, "Harry, my dear boy! There you are! Hagrid's been worried sick! He's waiting downstairs. If you'd like to join us, we can, I'm sure, conclude your shopping in no time at all, and get you back to your aunt and uncle, where you belong!"

The Malfoys froze, Lucius and Narcissa having some kind of silent conversation across the table from each other, like her parents sometimes did, but neither said anything. Hermione blinked at the newcomer for a long moment. Everything about him screamed 'stranger danger,' and he said he wanted to take her back to the _Dursleys_? As far as she was concerned, there was only one appropriate response: Object to going _anywhere_ with him. Loudly.

"I don't know who you think you are, but I will _not_ be going _anywhere_ with you! I would _like_ to remain _here_ , with Lord and Lady Malfoy, and eat my lunch, _not_ be returned to Vernon and Petunia Dursley, who think I _belong_ in a bloody boot cupboard under the bloody _stairs!_ Even _if_ I wanted to go back, which, let me make this perfectly clear, _I DON'T_ , I couldn't. I called CPS on those useless wastes of oxygen. They wouldn't have me back, and the government wouldn't make me go, and there's nothing you can do about it! If you're really with Hagrid, you can tell him for me that I've found more competent escorts, who didn't _abandon me in the middle of a strange new world to go off and have a bloody nip at the pub at ten-thirty in the bloody morning_!"

The wizard stepped toward the table, but Lucius stood up to get in his way, and then Narcissa said, clearly and calmly, "Please hold hands, if you would, boys." Draco seized Hermione's wrist, and the stranger froze.

"What are we doing?" she hissed at Draco.

"If he tries to take you, now, he'll have to splinch one of us or take both of us, and if he hurts or kidnaps the Heir of Malfoy, my father will have him removed from _every_ position of power he holds in the wizarding world," the boy answered at a normal volume. " _Mother_ would probably do something that makes Auntie Bella look sane."

For all she had understood perhaps one word in three of the implied threat and the danger handholding would prevent, Hermione did understand that the Malfoys were trying to protect her. She wrapped her own fingers securely around Draco's wrist as well.

"If you are truly as wise a man as your followers claim, Albus Dumbledore," Lucius drawled, "You will take a step back. I would _hate_ to have to interpret your invasion of my space and this disruption of my luncheon as an insult to the Noble House of Malfoy."

The other patrons of the restaurant were now staring as the blond aristocrat glared down the man Hermione now realized was the 'great' Headmaster of Hogwarts, Chief Mugwump, and whatever else the string of titles after his name meant. Dumbledore seemed to realize this, and (clearly reluctantly) stepped back.

"Please, Harry, my dear boy," he said insistently, "you must come with me. You must return to your family! It is not safe for –"

Hermione stood, dragging Draco with her, and cut him off, absolutely furious, and determined to be as rude to this interloper as she possibly could. "No, _Albus_ ," (Draco gasped. Hermione caught a quickly-concealed smirk from his father.) "I will not be going _anywhere_ with you! Were you not listening, before, when I said I cannot and do not _want_ to return to the Dursleys? They are NOT my family! They have never treated me like family! And the government of the United Kingdom is in the process of declaring them unfit guardians! It has been determined that leaving _me_ in _their_ care constitutes significant _HARM_ to a _child_ , i.e.: _me_ , so forgive me, _my dear creepy old man_ , if I doubt your ability to judge what constitutes a safe environment, since according to your own dogsbody, _you_ were the one responsible for leaving me there in the first place!"

A ringing silence fell at the end of her tirade, every eye in the restaurant focused on the five of them. Lucius was holding what had to be a magic wand on Dumbledore to stop him reaching in his pocket. Several other diners had half-risen from their seats, but froze, obviously torn between Dumbledore and Hermione herself. She was glowering at the old man, with a rather tense Draco still holding on to her left hand for dear life. And Narcissa had a dangerously calculating look in her eye that reminded Hermione uncomfortably of her own mother.

"You have no idea what you've just done," the old man said, anger and fear mingling in his tone as he glared at the dark-haired, green-eyed child before him. She shivered.

"Perhaps we should discuss the situation in… greater privacy," Narcissa suggested, in a way which was not at all a suggestion, beckoning a server closer, and giving him a series of clipped orders which Hermione couldn't quite make out.

"If you'll all, um, follow me?" The waiter gestured toward the stairs, and led them through the kitchen to what had to be a manager's office. Dumbledore, still held at wandpoint, swept ahead of the Malfoys, somehow making it seem as though he were at the head of a procession and they were doing precisely what he wanted. Hermione found herself hoping he would trip on his over-long, luridly-patterned robes. He didn't. He also took the chair behind the desk in the manager's office as though he owned the place.

"Anti-portkey, anti-apparition, anti-eavesdropping wards all in place, ma'am," the waiter said quickly. "I'll let the staff know you're not to be disturbed." He bowed jerkily and fled before he could be given any other orders. Narcissa smirked, then rounded on Dumbledore, stalking around the desk so that she could loom over him. Somehow, Hermione wasn't sure how or when, it appeared the Lady Malfoy had wrested control of the situation away from both her husband and the Headmaster. Though, given the look of anticipation on Lucius' face, _he_ might have gracefully conceded.

"Narcissa," the other man said calmly, popping something into his mouth. "Lemon drop?"

" _Dumbledore_ ," the lady returned, ignoring the offer of candy, "I will not open, as my son so impolitely did on my behalf with threats against your person. I will simply remind you that I _did_ have _two_ sisters, and invite you to recall which of the two I more closely resemble in temperament. If I were to destroy you, it would be completely and without warning – you would have no inkling of my movements until I was poised to strike, and while my husband's influence is impressive, you may be assured that my own network is further-reaching."

Dumbledore tried to speak, but Narcissa held up a finger and spoke over him. She did not raise her voice, but every word was clear and sharp. "If you care to _test_ the extent to which your star has waned since 1945, I implore you to continue your attempts to convince Mr. Potter to return to what he claims is an untenable living situation. Otherwise, I invite you to explain yourself, and to open a dialogue with my husband and me regarding the boy's further care. I will advise you, however, that you do not, in fact, hold the bones in this situation. _Without_ Mr. Potter's assistance in mitigating the effects of his outburst upstairs, well… Tell me, Albus, how do you think the Board of Governors will feel about the children of Magical Britain remanded into the care of the man who placed _The Boy Who Lived_ in an abusive home, and _repeatedly_ and _publically_ insisted that he return there against his wishes?"

"I acted in Harry's best interests!" the old man defended himself. "The Wizengamot would never –"

Narcissa scoffed, cutting him off. "All legalities aside, even the rumor would be enough to ruin you, _Headmaster_. You have finally miss-stepped so severely that your influence alone will not be enough to save you. 'Tread carefully, for the Serpent is a slippery beast, and his fangs are sharp.'"

The last was spoken with something of a quotation and an insult about it. Hermione joined Draco in staring openly at his mother. Lucius was smirking broadly.

"I think I'm in love with your mum," Hermione whispered to the boy who was still holding her hand.

He grinned and whispered back, "She's one of the best speakers in the Wizengamot. Father says the Dark always gets her to argue when we really have to make a point against _his_ lot."

Then they both shut up, because Dumbledore, who had gone slightly pale at the thought of the damage done to his reputation not five minutes before, cleared his throat. "What is it to you, Miss Black, where Harry Potter lives? His welfare is none of your concern!"

Narcissa, who had backed off slightly over the course of her rebuke, drew herself up into the very picture of an offended matron – she reminded Hermione forcefully of Grandmère Jeanne, who was not a woman to be crossed.

"The welfare of all magical children is of concern to myself and all other right-thinking witches and wizards!" she snapped, her voice still reasonably quiet, but harder and more emphatic, as though she was mortally insulted. "And you _forget_ yourself, _Headmaster_ : I was there, on the first of November – not at St. Mungo's with my husband, who was recovering from extensive exposure to the Imperius Curse, nor at home with my son, who was himself a babe in arms! I watched with the rest of the Wizengamot as _you_ argued that Harry Potter was a national treasure, as you petitioned that august body to remand him to _your_ custody, to be hidden away for his own safety! I _voted in favor_ of that motion! And _you_ , you turned around and handed him off to muggle _scum_ as though he were no more important than a sack of potatoes! _I have an interest_ because it was, in small part, _my fault_ that _you_ were ever granted any measure of control over his life."

Dumbledore looked both taken-aback and utterly _furious_ at the blonde witch's tirade. "Harry, do not listen – she lies!" he objected sharply, but Hermione was more inclined to believe the woman who had been so kind to her all morning than the man who had, apparently, neglected Harry Potter for his entire childhood.

" _Furthermore_ ," the woman in question hissed, verbally stomping on the Headmaster's attempt to derail her, "as I have been _recently_ reminded, _as a daughter of the House of Black_ ," (The wizard looked as though he had been smacked, to have his deliberate misaddress of the Lady Malfoy thrown back in his face.) "I have a duty of care to my cousin's godson, _the very least of which_ is to ensure that he is housed in a safe and nurturing environment – and, even leaving aside for the moment the crime against magic that is allowing the Heir to the Noble House of Potter to be raised _as a_ _muggleborn_ , a household which even the _muggle government_ deems unfit _most certainly_ does not qualify as safe! I am _ashamed_ to have been enabled such a decision in any small way, and I am _horrified_ that an elder statesman of our fair country such as yourself appears to have _no_ remorse for his own _much_ greater role!"

If Narcissa had taken her eyes off the old wizard for even a moment, she might have seen awe painted across Hermione's face. But instead, she caught aged fingers creeping toward a lurid pocket. "If you draw your wand, Albus Percival Brian Wulfric Dumbledore, in light of your recent actions, my husband and I _will_ be forced to assume you mean harm toward myself or our family, Chief Warlock or not." Her own wand was suddenly in her hand, and had joined her husband's in pointing at the old man. "They say it is ill luck for the first spell of a new wand to be cast with ill-intent, but there are few things I would not risk to protect my son."

The creeping fingers stilled, and the Headmaster folded his hands on the desk. "Then by all means, _Lady Malfoy_ , let us 'open a dialogue,'" he said smoothly, though his eyes held barely-restrained fury.

In the blink of an eye, every trace of anger was gone from Narcissa's body language. Her wand disappeared as quickly as it had appeared in the first place. She smiled reassuringly at Hermione. "Mr. Potter, is there anything you would like to say to Mr. Dumbledore?"

Hermione swallowed hard, suddenly nervous. "Only that I'm not going back to the Dursleys. And I don't think much of sending a _groundskeeper_ to recruit me for your school. And that I'm not clear on why you were the one to leave me with the Dursleys, or why you had my vault key, but the least you could have done was check up on me, or send someone to tell me about magic in person. A four-line letter saying I'm accepted to your school is a hell of a way to find out!"

Draco glared at the Headmaster, but held his tongue when his mother gave him a warning look. "Mr. Dumbledore?" the lady prompted.

"I am so very sorry, Harry, my boy," he began, but Hermione interrupted.

"I'm _not_ your _boy_."

"Please do observe the proprieties, Mr. Dumbledore," Lucius drawled.

There was true _hate_ in the look the Headmaster threw at the aristocrat. "I find it amusing how many of _Lord Voldemort's_ old followers insist upon propriety of address," he said. His lips twitched as all three of the Malfoys flinched at the name. "However, by all means, let us be formal. Master Potter."

"It's _Mr._ Potter," Draco corrected him fiercely. "Jamie's the Heir of Potter, and there's no Lord Potter. You'd know that if you weren't a m-"

The boy's voice was cut off with a flick of his mother's wand. "Language, Draco," she said calmly. The boy flushed and he hung his head. "My son is, however, correct, Mr. Dumbledore, unlike your insinuation that my husband and myself were willingly involved with the Dark Lord. Now, is there anything you would like to say to _Mr. Potter_?"

The old man sighed, and with obvious effort, pulled together a grandfatherly façade. "H – Mr. Potter. I was under the impression that the Dursleys would have told you all about your parents and the magical world – Petunia certainly knows of it, as her own sister, your mother, was a witch. Hagrid was simply to assure us that you had, in fact, made a decision as to whether you would attend Hogwarts, and help you fetch your supplies if need be. And as for why I was the one into whose care you were given, and why you were left with the Dursleys, well… what do you know of Voldemort's" (The Malfoys twitched again.) "War?"

"Hagrid gave me the kiddy-version this morning. Twenty-odd years ago, some wizard went 'bad' and took a French _nom de guerre_ under which he began to draw what I gather was a rather militant following. I believe Hagrid's words were that terrible things happened, and you couldn't trust anyone. On Halloween of 1981, he attempted to kill my parents and myself, failed to kill me, and vanished. He may or may not be dead."

"He almost certainly is not," the old man said. "There are certain indicators that suggest he will, in fact, one day return. And he had many followers and sympathizers," he added, with an accusing look at Lucius, "some of whom escaped justice after his fall, and continue to be very influential in our society."

"Even you are not exempt from the Truce, Mr. Dumbledore," Narcissa said lightly. Hermione made a mental note to find out more about 'the Truce' and the Malfoys' role in the war later.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Quite. Mr. Potter, when your mother died, she laid a very powerful protection on you. Her love shielded you from Voldemort's" ( _twitch_ ) "attack. I was able to build very strong protective wards on the basis of that sacrifice. So long as you lived with your maternal family, and called their house home, those who wished you harm, Voldemort and his followers chief among them, could not touch you. A protection which _you_ have now _voided_ , by seeking to remove yourself from that house, and declaring that they are no family of yours."

Hermione briefly felt _very_ guilty, until Narcissa spoke up again. "That… is…"

"The biggest load of hippogriff dung you've ever heard?" Lucius finished. "I quite agree."

"Jamie," the lady said, speaking directly to Hermione for the first time since Dumbledore had arrived, "I regret to inform you that _love_ , no matter how true and strong it may be, cannot shield against a Killing Curse. You must forgive Mr. Dumbledore his ignorance. His philosophy blinds him: he knows little about dark magic, and less about the soul. Whatever happened that night – which _no one knows_ , because _you are the only living witness_ – it was not simply a mother's love that saved you and destroyed the Dark Lord."

"Indeed," Lucius sneered, " _and_ our esteemed Chief Warlock has just come perilously close to admitting that he placed very dangerous and extremely illegal blood wards on a minor in his care – for what other kind of ward depends on proximity to one's blood relatives? Oh, they are light enough magic, based on familial bonds and acceptance, but you are better off without such 'protections.' Had they ever been called into effect, I suspect the strain on _your magic alone_ , given that your maternal relations _are muggles_ , would have killed you as the wards drew on your power and life to defend you."

Hermione suddenly felt very light-headed. Draco, still silenced, squeezed her hand tightly in support.

Dumbledore looked a bit pale, but he rallied. "There is no proof of that, and in any case, the point is moot. The fact remains, however, that Mr. Potter must be placed with a foster family post-haste, and as the one entrusted with his safety, I –"

"If you are about to say that we ought to entrust this boy to your protections a _second_ time," Lucius interrupted, "you had best reconsider."

"He can't stay in a muggle orphanage!" Dumbledore snapped.

"I quite agree," Narcissa said with a grin. "He can stay with us."

"Wha-?" the old wizard was completely dumbfounded. Lucius looked nearly as surprised, but not displeased.

"That is, if you like, Jamie."

Draco, obviously still unable to speak, nodded frantically. Hermione considered. The Malfoys had been nice enough, even if Lord Malfoy obviously had some scheme in mind, and Lady Malfoy was a little scary. The way she shifted between rage and kindness would have been _terrifying_ if Hermione hadn't suspected it was all an act to manipulate the old man. She had seen her mother do similar things to the school board and the Neighborhood Association, though never so fiercely. Still, the lady was patient with her own son, and had been consistently pleasant to Hermione all day, even standing up for her to this supposedly great man who wanted to take her back to the Dursleys. Plus, the Malfoys _clearly_ had money, so living with them was almost _bound_ to be better than living at Caraway House. And besides, she had always wanted a sister. (Draco, with his enthusiasm for clothes and prissy manners, was close enough.)

It was also worth considering that if she had truly fallen into some sort of story, this was obviously where it truly began. She smiled wryly to herself. Narrative Causality practically _demanded_ that she say yes.

"Okay," she said decisively. "I'd like that."

"No!" The Headmaster stood up suddenly. "I won't allow it! _You_ are exactly the sort of people I hid him away from in the first place!"

Narcissa smirked. "'Boy Who Lived Abuse Scandal – Dumbledore to Blame? Special Correspondent Rita Skeeter Reports!' One floo-call, Albus."

"Followed by 'Dumbledore Admits Prejudice against Former Imperiused Death Eater and Family,'" Lucius added. "Even your most loyal supporters in the Wizengamot would not be enough to save you from an order to Step Down."

Dumbledore appeared to collapse in on himself, falling back into the chair, a Malfoy looming on either side of him. "Let us not be too hasty, here – there are other wizarding families with a better claim – Molly Weasley nee Prewett was James Potter's second-cousin, or Augusta Longbottom?"

"Molly Prewett is a harpy who can't let the past lie, and Arthur Weasley has too many sons as it is," Narcissa snapped. "Augusta Longbottom's claim is through Alice Diggory, who was Jamie's godmother, and in _that_ case, our suit is equally valid! Moreso, since we are considered upstanding members of society, while Madam Longbottom is an embittered old woman who has, by all accounts, managed to turn her grandson into a near-squib with her overbearing and unreasonable expectations for him."

"I am sure the Tonks family –"

Narcissa scowled. "Andromeda Tonks renounced her claim to the Black name and all that entails in 1971, including her familial relationship with Sirius and thus any grounds to press a suit to foster his godson! We are by far the best candidates, you must admit it."

"I must do no such thing," the old wizard said coldly, standing again and brushing past Narcissa to reach the door. "Let me remind you both of something which you seem to have forgotten since your days as _my pupils_ : _Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus_. The Malfoy Family _will_ regret meddling in my affairs."

Lucius got the last word, however. " _Sanctimonia vincet semper_ , Headmaster. Charity, compassion, and protecting our children were, last I checked, still considered virtues."

The Headmaster stepped out into the kitchen and turned on his heel, disappearing with a final glare and a loud crack.

Narcissa let out a breath she had clearly been holding, and took a seat on the desk. She finally released the silencing spell on Draco, who immediately muttered, "If that old pervert ever tries to titillate _me_ in _my_ sleep, I'll stab him in the neck."

This drew a gasp of shocked horror from Hermione, and a substantial amount of laughter from both of his parents. Between snorts, Lucius explained that the Hogwarts motto actually meant not to tickle a sleeping dragon, and that there was "little to no risk" of his son being molested by the headmaster.

"Though you'd best aim for Slytherin, anyway," Narcissa added with a frown. "Severus does a damn sight better looking out for his children than any of the others do, and I'd hate for there to be a 'tragic accident'…"

"I, um… I didn't mean to make trouble," Hermione offered quietly. "Or put Draco in any danger."

"Nonsense, Jamie – Dumbledore has hated the Malfoy Family for ages," Lucius said, rolling his eyes. "And Cissa, your Black roots are showing. Even the Old Goat wouldn't stoop _that_ low."

" _I_ am going to pretend that you didn't just imply that my Black roots are a negative trait, Lucius, and _you_ are going directly to the ministry to begin the process of untangling the mess Dumbledore has made of young Jamie's legal status to make it up to me," his wife informed him with an arched brow.

Lucius sighed. "Yes, dear."

"Off with you, then," she shooed him out of the office, and once in the kitchen, he disappeared, like Dumbledore before him, with a loud crack. "And while your father is off taking care of _that_ , I propose we finish our much-belated repast, and attend to the remainder of your shopping lists: just books and wands left, yes?"

"Yes, ma'am," Hermione responded brightly, very excited for both magic books and a magic wand.

"Do call me Ms. Narcissa, Jamie. My husband is Mr. Lucius. We are not, after all, so very much older than you boys."

Draco snorted at that, but held his tongue. "Didn't father already _get_ my textbooks?" he complained instead as they returned to their table on the (now quite empty) second floor.

"He did," Narcissa replied, rolling her eyes, "But unless you plan to share with Jamie like a pair of degenerate Weasleys, we appear to be in need of a second set."

"Plus I've only just found out about magic!" Hermione added, bouncing in her chair. "I'm sure there's all sorts of other books, too – I can't wait to see!"

"Just so," the older witch said approvingly.

" _Fine_ ," Draco pouted. "But if I have to go to Flourish and Blotts, I want a new racing broom!"

"We can stop in at Bagnold's after Ollivander's," his mother said serenely.

"But QQS has a better selection!"

"Well, if you insist, you may wait until your father is free, and do your best to convince him to take you. You know how I feel about Mr. Morsette."

Draco sighed. "He's a degenerate Gryffindor of the worst sort, and we'd be better off ordering directly from the manufacturers than funneling any more money into his business, especially after his father started voting with the Light," he recited.

"Exactly."

"But _mother_ , they let you do _test flights_."

"Save it for your father, Draco."

"Jamie's never flown before!"

"And he's not going to learn on a test-flight on a brand-new, top-of-the-line Nimbus," Narcissa said firmly. " _And_ , if you don't eat your vegetables instead of trying to nudge them off the table, we won't even be going to Bagnold's."

"Fine!" He stuffed a whole asparagus in his mouth, and stuck his tongue out at his mother when she turned to deal with the bill.

"I saw that, Draco. This is your final warning."

The pointy-faced boy swallowed with difficulty. "Yes, Mother. Sorry, Mother."

Hermione smiled, feeling for the first time in ages like she was part of a real family again, just watching mother and son interact.

_**Severus** _

Severus Snape was summoned to the Headmaster's Office just past two o'clock. This was incredibly irritating, as he had just settled down to work for the day. It was one thing to give him eighty-plus hours of work during the average school week, but he had thought that the old man appreciated having faculty who published! At this rate, he would never finish his experiment on venom enhancement and its antidotes.

He took the long way, which involved eight flights of stairs and three secret passages, so that he could safely mutter all of his frustrations under his breath before he reached the office, rather than simply floo up.

When he arrived, Dumbledore was pacing. That was odd. He normally preferred to sit behind his desk as though he had everything in the wizarding world under control, and there was nothing at all to worry about, saying 'oh, by the by, fancy a Lemon Soother disguised as a revolting muggle sweet?'

"Severus," he said, without preamble, "I fear there has been a grave development."

Curiosity warred with scorn, and won. "What is it?"

"Harry Potter has been kidnapped by Lucius Malfoy."

Severus raised an eyebrow at the old man, while silently congratulating Narcissa. Everyone who mattered knew that she was the brains of that outfit, though Lucius was more visible. If Harry Potter truly had been found, it would doubtless be her doing, not her husband's. "I fail to see why you have summoned me here, Dumbledore," he said impatiently.

The old man, now at the far side of the room, turned suddenly to face him. "I require more information – how are they holding the boy? What is our most effective tactic by which to recover him?"

"Surely they will be sending him to Hogwarts in a month with their own spoilt brat." The best thing Severus could say about Draco Malfoy was that he had, at least, had the best tutors money could buy, and was therefore not quite as ignorant as his peers would be. That did not mean he was not a spoilt, entitled brat, whom Severus was not looking forward to having in his house.

"There is no guarantee that they will not homeschool them, or ship them off to Durmstrang!"

"Narcissa will not see her son in the hands of Igor Karkaroff, much less so valuable a political pawn as Harry Potter. Much as the Dark disapproves of your leadership, they do trust the Hogwarts Treaty to prevent you taking their children hostage. There are no such assurances from Durmstrang," Severus reminded the Headmaster. "And the networking opportunities Hogwarts provides are too valuable to allow the Heir of Malfoy to be homeschooled."

He received a scowl in return. "This is a matter of the utmost urgency! Surely you see that! Just imagine, Severus, what they could _do_ to the boy in a month!"

The Potions Master rolled his eyes. "Like convince him the sun doesn't shine out of your arsehole?"

"This is no laughing matter, Severus!" the Headmaster shouted. Severus felt his eyes widen minutely. He had never managed to make the old man lose his temper so thoroughly before. "The child was clearly confounded! He accused me of leaving him in an abusive muggle home, in front of an entire restaurant full of witnesses!"

" _Did_ you?" Severus asked, taken aback. It was obvious that Dumbledore did not believe the accusation, but Severus was far less inclined to dismiss such claims, given his personal experiences with abuse and abused children.

He knew, of course, that Dumbledore had placed the boy with Petunia Evans and her muggle husband, a ploy at least partially motivated by a desire to leave the child ignorant of his fame until he reached Hogwarts, and partially in the hope of fostering some love of the muggle world in the Boy Who Lived. For all the old man liked to believe himself untouchable, he was nowhere near sufficiently competent in the art of Occlumency to keep a skilled and determined legilimens at bay for years on end, and Severus had had every reason to infiltrate the mind of his remaining Master. That said, he had not cared to look too closely at what little the old goat knew of Harry Potter's home life, and in any case, he could not afford to reveal that he had wormed his way into the Headmaster's mind, so he was bound to pretend ignorance of anything he could not credit to some source other than legilimency.

"Of course not! I left him with his own family, his aunt and uncle!" the elder wizard thundered. "Malfoy is to blame for this, mark my words!"

Severus allowed his glare to intensify as he concealed his knowledge of the situation. "You do not mean _Petunia Evans_ , surely?"

"Who else? Lily sacrificed herself to save him, and while he lives with her blood, that sacrifice will continue to protect him! Or it _would have_ – they convinced him, somehow, to break the wards!"

He pointed at a particular silvery monitoring device that seemed to have cracked down the middle and was no longer moving. Severus rather suspected that it had probably taken very little convincing, if the boy was telling the truth. He, for one, would be willing to believe many things of the bitter young woman he used to know. He had taken Dumbledore's word that Harry Potter was well-looked-after, willing to accept that Petunia could have matured sufficiently to look after Lily's son, if not to love him as her own, but given the boy's apparent testimony… Abusing, or at the very least neglecting, the unwanted, _magical_ son of her long-estranged sister was equally within her capabilities.

But the old fool was still talking: "And, _and_ – they had the nerve to accuse me, in front of the boy, of endangering his life! I fear he will never come to fully trust me, now, unless we can recapture him and reverse whatever spells they have been holding him under – make him see that they have been trying to use him for their own purposes…"

"And you are _certain_ , are you, that the boy was not harmed by Petunia and her husband?"

"Of course not, Severus! He is their own blood! I am sure they would never –"

"As though blood matters in these things!" Severus interrupted, quite suddenly legitimately furious with the old man. Half of his Slytherins were treated abominably by their own parents in the name of teaching them to be 'proper' heirs. He himself had been at the mercy of his drunken muggle father until he finally reached his majority and could use magic to fight the man off. He would not wish such a fate even on the son of James Potter. "Did you go and check up on him? See for yourself his state and condition at regular intervals?" Severus knew he hadn't.

"He was being monitored," here Dumbledore pointed at a cheerfully waving indicator, "and I have had a squib watching the house, as well, to give periodic updates."

As though 'a squib watching the house' would know what went on inside of it! Didn't he know, better than anyone, the lengths to which a child would go to refuse to admit a problem with their home life? The Head of Slytherin was momentarily speechless. Then he hissed with as much venom as he could muster, "You are a _fool_ ," and turned on his heel.

"Severus! _Sever_ -"

Severus whipped back around, robes nearly snapping. "I will make my own inquiries, and act to protect the boy if necessary, _Headmaster_. I _swore_ it, after all. I will _not_ kidnap a child who was quite possibly abused from a family that has offered him protection on your say-so alone, and compel him to believe your 'truth' over theirs." He sneered as fiercely as he could at the old man. "Even the Dark Lord never stooped so low as _that_." It was true – the Dark Lord had killed children, and Bellatrix had, on occasion, tortured them, but neither had ever forced him to do so.

He turned on his heel again and stalked out of the tower office, ignoring the old man's angry protestations behind him. He would find the truth of the matter, and then, well… then he would do whatever he deemed most appropriate. And if Dumbledore had sent the child he had made Severus swear to protect to an abusive home, then Dumbledore could go hang for all Severus cared. There was little love between them to be lost, but he dared say that would do it.

_**Hermione** _

The book store was fabulous. There was no other word for it. Close-stacked shelves rose up to the ceiling, packed with tomes like paving stones and tiny little handbooks, bound in silk and leather, on parchment and paper. Every section was organized according to a different principle. At least half of them were written in French or Latin or what had to be Ancient Runes, and there were more languages she didn't recognize, but even just limiting herself to the English selection, there were _thousands_ of titles that caught her eye. _And_ she had an entire vault full of money to spend, and a trunk like The Luggage to store them in (kind of – it was bigger on the inside and followed her around, though she didn't think it would actually eat people, and it floated instead of moving on tiny feet). If this wasn't heaven, she didn't know what was.

Narcissa had been quite obviously amused when she carried her first armload of additional history texts to the counter. By the time she re-appeared with a selection of magical theory books, it was clear the blonde witch was slightly alarmed.

"Perhaps," she said, with a tiny smile, "we might narrow these down a bit to the introductory level?"

Hermione had been forced to concede that some of the books were out of her league, and that she would be at Hogwarts by the time she needed any of them, anyway, so she could have a look at them in the library before she decided whether to actually buy them. Narcissa also informed her that the Malfoys owned several of the more expensive history books already, and there was no sense in her buying another copy when she was going to come live with them and could borrow them indefinitely. Finally, the older witch had added several books on etiquette; _Nature's Nobility_ (which Hermione gathered was like Debrett's for wizards); a selection of books intended for muggleborns, which explained the basics of magical culture and politics; French and Latin dictionaries; and a beautiful, blue, leather-bound journal, with thick, creamy parchment pages (because "every young gentleman should have a diary, and you will need to practice your penmanship").

She couldn't wait to get home – whether that turned out to be the Malfoys' house (manor? It was probably a manor, she decided) or Caraway House – though she was torn between whether to dive into the new history books to find out about M. Voleur's War and the part 'she' had played in it, and writing down everything that had happened over the course of the day while it was still fresh in her mind.

Draco was kept busy fetching books as Narcissa thought of them to add to the pile, while Hermione resisted returning history and magical theory books to the stacks. In between, he complained quietly about how fetching and carrying was servants' work and how he wanted to go to the Quidditch shop, but Hermione suspected that it was mostly out of habit, because she caught him flipping interestedly through one of the books for muggleborns right before he was sent off to find _A Brief History of Traditionalism: Powers and the Holidays_. He had also snuck a few wizarding fiction books into the pile, but Hermione didn't mind. She would be happy to read those as well.

It took what Hermione considered a depressingly short time to accumulate what Narcissa considered quite enough books to be getting on with. She could have spent _days_ trawling through the stock in-depth. But the elder witch had, after only an hour, put her foot down, pointing out that they still had to make it to Ollivanders', the wand shop, before he closed for the day. The books were duly packed away into the trunk (which was now rather full, even given its magically-enhanced dimensions), and the three of them proceeded up the street.

Ollivanders' was a narrow, rather shabby-looking shop. Its peeling sign claimed to have been in business since 382 BC, which seemed patently impossible. Hermione made a note to see if it was mentioned in any of her history books. As Draco held the door for his mother, Hermione heard a bell tinkle in the depths of the building. Narcissa took custody of the single spindly chair in the deserted waiting-area. The children shared Hermione's trunk's lid, which she suspected was more comfortable, anyway. There was a sense in the air, as though anything could happen – potential. Magic? She could almost feel it rising off the thousands of narrow boxes piled to the ceiling.

Before she could ask any of the many of questions that came to mind, an old man slipped out from between the shelves. He had wide, pale eyes that shined in the gloom of the shop, and his voice was soft when he spoke.

"Good afternoon, Lady Malfoy. Back so soon?"

Narcissa quirked a half-smile at the aged wizard. "Not for myself, Mr. Ollivander. My son is in need of his first wand today as well, as is Mr. Potter…" she trailed off, as the man's attention had obviously turned to the children.

He moved closer to them, almost gliding, his eyes magnified ridiculously behind his spectacles, like an oversized insect. Draco hopped to his feet and bowed. Hermione did her best to mimic him.

"Mr. Potter. Master Malfoy…"

"Greetings, Master Wandmaker," Draco said rather nervously. Hermione echoed him, and the old wizard focused in on her.

"Yes… yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon… Harry Potter. You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work." He moved even closer, not blinking. It was rather creepy. "Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power, and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it – it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course." He was now so close that Hermione could see Harry Potter's green eyes reflected in Ollivander's own. He flicked aside her fringe and ran a finger gently over the lightning-bolt scar.

Narcissa cleared her throat. "Do you see something, Mr. Ollivander?"

The old wizard shook his head. "Something, nothing, everything. The hand of fate lies heavy on you, I fear, my child. And for that I am sorry, for I sold the wand that cursed you with this destiny. Thirteen-and-a-half inches, yew, very powerful…" he shook his head and moved away slowly.

"Narcissa Black… your first wand was beechwood, very unusual for a first wand, with a core of unicorn hair…"

"Until my son was born, yes. I have used ebony and phoenix for the past ten years. The latest is somewhat more rigid than the previous."

"Appropriate. And Lucius Malfoy first wielded his late father's cherry and dragon, before being matched with his own cherry and unicorn, which he still has…?"

Narcissa nodded. Ollivander gave her a rather sideways look, and she smirked. "Draco takes after Orion, and has had some success with both his and old Armand Malfoy's wands.

"Armand Malfoy used Gregorovitch, I believe, but Orion… Orion, hmm… Very well, then… let us see… For the young Master Malfoy, I think we should be trying the unusual woods, first, with hmm… yes, unicorn, I think… here we are. Yew and unicorn, twelve inches, unyielding." He handed Draco a box. Draco, after a warning look from his mother, waited politely for him to choose one for Hermione as well.

"For Mr. Potter… let us see… Ah, yes. Let's try beechwood and dragon. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just give it a wave." Both children took the wands from their boxes. Hermione swished hers decisively, like Narcissa had to silence Draco, earlier, but nothing happened. Draco brought his straight down before him, and produced a few sparks for his efforts.

Ollivander snagged Hermione's wand straight out of her hand, saying, "No, and no," and Draco set his carefully back in its box.

The wandmaker cheerfully passed "Hawthorn and unicorn, eight inches," to Draco (which was slightly more responsive) and then "Maple and phoenix, seven inches," to Hermione (which was exactly the same – nothing happened). Draco was matched on his third try, with "Hawthorn and unicorn, ten inches." A fountain of silver sparks erupted from it, and he spent several minutes making a light go on ("lumos") and off ("nox") at the end of it before his mother told him to stop showing off and let Ollivander find Hermione's wand.

That was easier said than done. She tried wand after wand, and Ollivander seemed to grow more and more confused, but also more excited. Finally, he had it narrowed down to two, each of which suited her equally well, and either of which Ollivander assured her she could use effectively, but _neither_ of which was a perfect match. One was made of vinewood, with a dragon heartstring core. The other was holly, with a phoenix feather. No other combination of vine and phoenix or holly and dragon, however, was anywhere near as good a match as either of the others.

"The wand wood," their creator explained, nearly bouncing before her, "is matched to one's personality. A wand that is properly matched, that has _chosen_ its wizard, will grow attuned to him, but as a wizard grows, it is not unusual for his personality to change more quickly than a wand is able to attune itself, or to leave the resonance range of one wood entirely for another. This is why, as the oldest families know," he bowed slightly to Narcissa, who nodded, "it is best to test every seven years, or after life-altering events, to see whether a different wand has become a better match. The _core_ , on the other hand, resonates with your magic. Often a witch or wizard will find that their wands are all brothers, meaning their cores are drawn from the same magical creature, or cousins – drawn from closely related creatures."

Hermione must have looked slightly lost, because Narcissa interrupted with an example: "Both my core and my wood changed after Draco was born, but since then, both of my wands have used feathers from the same phoenix."

"Exactly. And here, we have a very unusual case, because the vine is more closely suited to your personality, though the dragon will support it, as they are fully matched, whereas the phoenix… this _particular_ phoenix… is more attuned to your magic, and of course, the holly supports it as well, so you see, they are equally drawn to you, but for different reasons."

"Can't you just take the feather out of the one and put it into the body of the other? Wouldn't that make it perfect?"

Ollivander chuckled. "No more than I could take your soul and replace it with young Master Malfoy's, Mr. Potter."

In that instant, Hermione realized what the problem must be. She groaned.

"No need for all that," Ollivander said jovially. "Either of these wands will work for you. The match is not _perfect_ , but then, all things change in time... I recommend the holly and phoenix feather. Not only is the tie to personality more malleable, but it speaks of destiny, and cycles complete…" he trailed off, staring intently at the scar on Hermione's forehead.

"Erm…" she hesitated, but a wand _was_ necessary, even one that had something to do with a strange destiny. "I suppose it will have to do, then."

"You won't be disappointed, Mr. Potter. And I think we can expect great things from you… yes…"

"Why is that, sir?" Draco asked, rather petulantly. He had grown bored with the proceedings, and was sulking about Hermione delaying his trip to the broom shop.

"Hmmm… because, Master Malfoy, the phoenix whose tail-feather resides in this wand donated only one other – a single brother wand… and that brother… thirteen and a half inches, yew, powerful and unyielding, gave Mr. Potter his very famous scar. He who must not be named did great things with that wand – terrible, yes, but great – and so to those who _know_ , it must be expected that its brother is also called to greatness…" Hermione shivered. Draco's mouth was hanging open.

Narcissa smirked, and cleared her throat. "Mr. Ollivander, perhaps now is not the time to scare the boys with talk of the Dark Lord and an unknown Destiny?" As Hermione was coming to expect, it was phrased as a suggestion, but there was a layer of steel beneath her words and a certain hardness in her eyes that indicated it was anything but.

The wandmaker hesitated for a long moment, but then said, "Perhaps you are correct. There is more of your eldest sister in you than you know, my lady," he grumbled, bustling over to an old-fashioned till.

"A compliment, I am sure," the witch answered drily, "to the witch who raised me. I shall endeavor to take it as such."

Narcissa paid for both wands, passing the old man a jingling leather bag with no discussion of the actual price, and swept out of the shop without a backward glance, the children (and the trunk) trailing behind her in a motley parade.

"That was… strange, right?" Hermione asked Draco.

He squeezed her hand reassuringly. "Mr. Ollivander is _always_ strange. I don't like him a bit."

Hermione nodded fervently. "I agree."

"Come along, children," Narcissa called back to them, and they hurried to catch up.

"Brooms?" Draco reminded her.

She gave him an exasperated look, but nodded, and he took off running, pulling Hermione along with him. Narcissa's admonishments followed them down the street, and their own laughter floated back as they dodged between the last shoppers of the day.

Hermione reflected that perhaps she really _had_ been missing out on having friends all these years, and grinned.

_**Lucius** _

Lucius Malfoy was a man accustomed to getting exactly what he wanted, exactly when he wanted it. For the most part, his days were spent dealing with his many business interests, both magical and muggle (investments which had been both economically and politically advantageous in the wake of the Dark Lord's downfall, despite their distastefulness). He also spent a great deal of time making his presence felt at the Ministry of Magic, keeping an eye on Fudge, the candidate he had recently backed for Minister, and an ear to the ground in order to stay several steps ahead of the latest Light legislation designed to force him (and all other traditionalist, Dark patriarchs) into destitute oblivion. On occasion, he even made an appearance in the Wizengamot – particularly for the more controversial votes – and he sat on the Hogwarts Board of Governors, which was a personal appointment, rather than a family appointment. Whenever possible, however, he left the day-to-day politicking to Narcissa. She seemed to enjoy that particular game far more than he ever had.

He could not say he loved the woman, but she _was_ a most effective partner, and, though he was loath to admit it, more than his equal when it came to plotting the continued rise of the House of Malfoy. He knew that his wife was still a Black at heart, and was certain she would turn on him without a single qualm if the circumstances ever warranted it, but until that time, she would be faithful to him and throw all her ruthlessness and cunning into writing legislation that benefited their current alliance. He trusted her that far, at least. And it seemed she trusted his judgement as well, expanding so decisively upon his initial bid to sway the boy toward friendship with Draco and subvert him from the Light. When she had denied close cousinship with the boy, he had thought she was suggesting that they ought not move too quickly, but perhaps seeing the child tear into the Old Goat had changed her mind.

Harry Potter, it seemed, was not the hero the Light made him out to be, but rather a blank slate, kept in total ignorance and isolation. He was remarkably open about what he had experienced in the muggle world, and it was clear that he laid the blame both for his abuse and for his current predicament – entering Magical Britain at the age of eleven, woefully under-informed – squarely at the feet of Albus Dumbledore… just as it should be. He had not even required any prompting from Lucius or Narcissa to accuse _the Headmaster of Hogwarts_ of aiding and abetting the abuse of _the Boy Who Lived_ by _muggle relations_ … It was almost too perfect. He would have to think of a suitable reward for Draco for befriending the lad. Perhaps that new broom he had been begging for…

He was in luck when he had arrived at the Office of Child Welfare – Hadrian Selwyn, a fellow supporter of the Dark (though never a marked Death Eater) was on duty, and more than willing to begin the process of re-assigning Potter's Magical Guardianship, quickly and quietly, as a favor to an old friend – all Lucius had to do was track down his current muggle guardians and get them to sign the boy over.

Several hours later, however, he was beginning to re-think whether he had truly been so lucky, having Dumbledore's little mistake dropped suddenly in his lap. He had questioned and _obliviated_ no fewer than six muggles in pursuit of the information he required before he found his way to what seemed to be some sort of child welfare office in Central London, and from there to a disgusting muggle home called 'Caraway House.'

The muggle in charge of the revolting… dwelling had been more than pleased to sign the paperwork, with the help of a light _confundus_ , but then it turned out that she was not, in fact, the one whose signature he needed: since the investigation of the muggles was not yet concluded, according to the Petunia Dursley was still _technically_ Harry Potter's guardian. But at least the old woman of Caraway House knew where to find her. It was on the boy's paperwork.

Petunia Dursley, home alone, had been easily intimidated into releasing custody of her nephew. Lucius was certain he had never met a more vile, mud-stained wretch in all his life. Her voice, her attitude, everything _about_ her made his fingers _itch_ to cast the sort of magic he hadn't done for nearly a decade, now. He couldn't _imagine_ what Dumbledore had been thinking, leaving his 'savior' with… _this_.

He maintained his composure through sheer force of will, _obliviating_ the muggle of his visit. If there was any justice in the world, Harry Potter's many rabid worshipers would descend upon this hellish wasteland of muggleishness and destroy the sickening creature and her so-called family in his name with every bit as much fervor as the Death Eaters would have done. It would, Lucius thought, be a lovely bit of irony.

Papers finally signed, Lucius returned to the Ministry, only to find that Dumbledore had made a move in the hours he had been absent, starting the paperwork for Amos and Cadi Diggory, Alice Longbottom's first cousin and his wife, to enter a challenge to the Malfoys' custody and guardianship application. He was certain Diggory had only agreed to spite him – the man had no love of Dumbledore, but a great hatred of Death Eaters. And it just got better: their solicitor was Andromeda Tonks. _Fantastic_. While Lucius was confident that his own suit would be successful in the long run (he could certainly provide for the boy better, and Diggory had barely retained custody over his _own_ children after being driven into St. Mungo's by grief in '81), engaging Narcissa's former sister to argue their case was tantamount to a declaration of war. He could already feel the case for full Regent's powers over House Potter rising all the way to a full Wizengamot decision.

Until a hearing could be arranged, however, since Lucius had gotten there first, and he did have the guardianship transfer form, signed by both the muggle government representative _and_ the Dursley slag, they had no grounds to insist upon the boy's removal from his wife's custody, at least for the moment.

He sent an update to Narcissa as he waited for Selwyn to process his forms. In light of the counter-suit, they hardly mattered. Tonks (every bit as clever and ruthless as her one-time sister), would argue that the dispensation of a woman who was herself in the process of being declared an unfit guardian ought to count _against_ the Malfoys, if at all. He and Narcissa would argue that they were simply following the approved procedure and move to dismiss the muggle's wishes as a factor. And then it would be down to reputation and financial obligations and political alignments and negotiation. _How tedious._

After that chore was done, he popped in on the Muggleworthy Excuse Committee and advised them to send someone around to notify the proper muggles (and probably also Deputy Headmistress McGonagall) that Harry Potter would be attending Hogwarts in September, since apparently no one else had, and made a note in his diary to bring it up at the next meeting of the Board of Governors, just to further blacken Dumbledore's eye.

After _that_ , he was waylaid by Augustine Yaxley, demanding to know what he was thinking, taking a public stand on behalf of Harry Potter in the midst of Diagon Alley. He clapped a hand on his former comrade's shoulder and gave the wizard his sharpest smile. "Augustine, my friend," he drawled, "I do believe that once you've heard the _rest_ of the story, you will be wholeheartedly in favor of my actions."

 _And then_ , he thought, _you can pass word to all of our old associates that I have a plan for Dumbledore's little mistake – oh yes. It wouldn't do for some over-zealous supporter of the Dark to attack the Potter boy before they stopped to think of the advantages of taking him well in hand and raising him to oppose the Light. This, well… If it all goes according to plan, this could change_ everything _._

_**Hermione** _

Bagnold's Brooms, the Quidditch shop, was rather like a fancy bike shop. It was cozy and clearly a family business, as the three shop assistants had to be father and sons. The younger wizards, perhaps eighteen or twenty years old, pulled Hermione and Draco aside to look at the latest deliveries and (after a bit of fawning over Harry Potter, during which Hermione shared an eye-roll with Draco) waxed poetic about the brooms' acceleration and cornering abilities, and which would be best for which positions in Quidditch, which was something like the National Sport of Magical Britain. Hermione decided it probably wasn't going to be her cup of tea. While flying on a broomstick sounded all well and good, like something a witch ought to do, she had never been one for organized sports. One where there were two oversized cannonballs flying around trying to knock you hundreds of feet to the ground sounded horrifying.

Hermione had left the boys to debate the outcome of the local Quidditch league's next match and was eavesdropping on the adults (Mr. Bagnold was trying to sell Narcissa on the latest Cleansweep based on its 'low input enchantment array' and she was arguing that low input enchantments were rubbish, because they were far less responsive to the rider 'by definition') when a small grey owl arrived. It flew straight to Narcissa and landed on her shoulder, carrying what turned out to be a message from Lucius. She raised an eye at its contents, then called Draco over to join them. The Bagnolds made themselves scarce, puttering around the shop.

"Draco, have you reached a decision?"

Draco's eyes strayed toward the new Nimbus he had been talking about since the moment Hermione had met him, but he sighed and admitted, "I don't want to buy it without test-flying it first."

"Well, there's still time, and it's not as though you could take it to Hogwarts with you anyway. Jamie, Lucius advises me that the paperwork has been… expedited, on the muggle end, though he is still working on getting the ministry to process things on our end. You may return home with us tonight, unless there is some desperately pressing reason to return to this… Caraway House."

Hermione considered. There wasn't really anything she wanted or needed that she had left with Matron Caraway. All of Harry Potter's clothes should be consigned to a rubbish bin; the things she had been wearing were borrowed from a charity box. She had nothing of her own. Even her papers had been kept in the official file. Perhaps she ought to go back and check in, just to make sure everything really was taken care of, but the Malfoys gave off such an air of propriety that she was certain they would have done everything correctly and got all the paperwork done and whatnot. There must be some official interaction between the magical and non-magical governments, and they would doubtless have pulled _every_ string to get the Famous Harry Potter back in Magical Britain. She was sure it was fine. And besides, she didn't know where the Malfoys lived, but it would probably take ages for Narcissa to take her back to Caraway House, and then get home.

"I'll go with you, Ms. Narcissa, if you don't mind. I wouldn't want to impose, of course."

Narcissa waved her concern away. "Nonsense. There's plenty of room, and it's Lammase'en – the more the merrier."

"Lammase'en?" Hermione asked, just as Draco whined, "Do we have to?"

"Mind your tongue!" Narcissa snapped, more sharply than she had spoken to her son all day. And then, in her normal, tranquil tones, "I'll explain when we get to the Manor, Jamie, dear."

"Stupid old holiday," Draco grumbled, then looked at his mother in outrage as he was silenced for the second time that day.

"Your father may think the Old Ways beneath the Malfoy dignity, but you are _my_ son as well, Draco Scorpius, and the Eternal House does _not_ neglect its origins!" The blonde witch hustled the children out the door and down the street to an out-of-the-way nook. There were red and blue squares marked out in glowing lines on the cobblestones. 'Diagon Alley North' was painted on the wall in ornate white letters.

Draco walked into the blue square as though he were headed to his doom, and his mother sent him out of it at once. "I shall take Jamie first, then the trunk, _then_ you, my most impertinent child. Side-along apparition," she added, at Hermione's obvious confusion. "Just relax," she smiled, leading Hermione into the blue square as Draco stomped out with a silent huff to sit on the trunk.

The blonde witch wrapped an arm around Hermione's shoulders and spun them in a tight circle, and then there was an unpleasant, too-tight, compressing sensation – 'Unpleasantly like being drunk,' as the Douglas Adams quote went – before they appeared in a well-lit white and silver room. There was a crest on one wall, a door in another, and benches along the other two. Narcissa settled her on one of these to catch her breath and get her bearings before she vanished with a snapping sound.

She reappeared half a minute later with Hermione's trunk (and a much louder crack), and then another minute after that with a scowling Draco, slightly out of breath. He was apparently able to speak again, because as soon as they appeared, he began complaining about being left for last.

"Draco, _enough_!" his mother finally snapped. "We have a _guest_ , and you are _embarrassing the House of Malfoy_ with your behavior!"

As though this was some kind of spell itself, the blond went very red, and bowed stiffly to his mother, then to Hermione. "Apologies for my ill-behavior. Please, I beg you do not allow it to taint your initial impression of the house of my forefathers." It sounded like an often-rehearsed apology.

"Um, no, it's fine," Hermione stuttered. It probably wasn't a good idea to point out that she expected nothing less than for the youngest Malfoy to be a spoilt brat by now. It didn't bother her too much. She was herself a bit spoilt – or had been, before suddenly waking up as an abused orphan boy. (She had discovered that that was the sort of thing that really put one's priorities in order.) And besides, Lord and Lady Malfoy had made a much stronger and more positive impression for their house in sticking up to Dumbledore for her.

Apparently this was an acceptable answer, because Narcissa nodded. "Draco, you may give Jamie a brief tour. I will have the elves take his trunk to the Green Suite. Please dress for dinner at the usual time. Mopsy!"

Draco tugged Hermione out of the room just as a small creature dressed in a tea-towel appeared.

"What on Earth?"

"It's just a House Elf. Come on, I need to make sure all my things got delivered, but then I can show you how to dress for dinner."

"You _dress for dinner_?"

"Welcome to Malfoy Manor," he said with a superior smirk. "This is the Core of the house. It was built in the 1600s by… Leopold Malfoy, I think. It's been the primary residence for the Family since Grindelwald's War, when Seigneur Armand moved the seat back from France."

" _Parlez vous francais_?" Hermione asked.

Draco grinned, and she was briefly overwhelmed by a babble of French.

" _Lentament, s'il vous plait_!" she laughed. "I'm still learning."

" _Evidemment_ ," the boy smirked. "Mother will be pleased, though. We still have family in France, and of course every accomplished young gentleman speaks French." He rolled his eyes to show what he thought of being accomplished, presumably. Hermione could sympathize. Her own father also had relatives in France, whom they occasionally visited. Her mother had demanded that she at least be capable of politeness in the language, though she wasn't anywhere near fluent. Unfortunately she couldn't tell Draco that, since Harry Potter apparently had no relatives at all. "Anyway, you only have to use 'vous' for strangers and older people – Mesdames and Messiers."

" _Bien. Et merci_."

" _Quels sont les amis_? Anyway, I was saying about the house," he said, leading her up a flight of stairs and down a hall, "This is the core, the oldest part, with the kitchens, scullery and laundry in the basement, apparition room, grand ballroom, and grand dining room on the ground floor, a bunch of old bedrooms that have been converted into studies, sitting rooms, and parlors on the second, and elf quarters on the third. The Upper East Wing is my wing – second floor of the East Wing, that is. There are three suites – mine, the Green Suite, and the Blue Suite which is actually the Nursery, the Classroom, the Children's Study, and the Lesser Library. Downstairs East Wing is the guest wing. Small ballroom, Main Library, sitting rooms, parlors, and four smaller suites. Upper West Wing is the Master's Wing – the Lord and Lady's suites, their studies, the Lady's Parlor, the Master's Library, and the Solar. Lower West Wing is the Dowager Wing, which is closed, since Grandmother Malfoy died, and none of the French Malfoys are visiting at the moment. Mostly we keep all the really annoying portraits there."

"Annoying… portraits?"

"You know, all the ones that can't keep their three-hundred year old opinions to themselves? Great Aunt Selene really dislikes Mother for some reason. She called her a really nasty name when I was five, in front of a whole room full of guests. So she's been bound to her frame and exiled to the elf quarters, but the rest of them are just… old. They seem perfectly happy being out of sight and out of mind, so long as they get to talk to each other."

"Portraits have… personalities? And… talk?"

"Of course they do! Otherwise you might as well just take a photo, wouldn't you?"

"Oh. Muggle portraits are just… paint. They don't do anything."

"How _dull_... How do they get to know the old family members?"

"Um… journals? Stories their parents tell them, too, I guess. You mean you can actually talk to your relatives after they've… died?"

"If they had a portrait made. You should ask the goblins if your parents did. Your father should have, at least, when he became Lord Potter, but they were at war, so…" Draco trailed off rather awkwardly.

"I'll – I'll do that." This was all so very surreal.

They were saved from the sudden awkwardness between them by their arrival at the Green Suite, and the Heir's Suite, across the hall. Hermione's rooms reminded her a bit of her own, re-decorated the previous summer to be just as grown-up, though hers was all warm autumn colors, and this reminded her of a summer forest, all green and brown. The carpets were rich and dark, and the walls nearly black up to waist-height, where they met a warm, brown molding and then became an icy, minty shade. There was an open front room with several armchairs and a sofa, upholstered in a brighter, leafier color, with a table and four chairs that matched the moldings and the mantle above the small fireplace. The bedroom had another fireplace, as well as a bed with posts, but no curtains, a desk, several empty bookshelves, and an armoire. Hermione's trunk was sitting at the end of the bed. The attached bathroom was small but serviceable, with a claw-footed tub, toilet, sink, and _talking mirror?_ How very _strange_.

Draco was still keeping up a running commentary on the house and, now, its grounds. "Hmmm… what else? There's the Quidditch pitch, obviously. I'll show you tomorrow and teach you how to fly, it's the best! And the outbuildings: greenhouses, breeding sheds – not allowed in there – kennels, mews, owlry, and stables – we've got a matched pair of Abraxans – and the carriage-house, of course. Gardens, the stupid hedge maze, and the orchard. There are tenants, too, a couple farms and the muggle village of Dilby, but you can't see any of them from here. Oh! And the ritual room, the 'north wing.' Can't forget that, since it is a holiday. That has a path that leads to a little stone circle. Mother says it pre-dates the Roman presence in Britain, and it's _probably_ why the house was built here in the first place."

After Hermione had poked around her suite and pronounced it satisfactory (far more than, really), she followed him across the hall, where his own rooms were similarly decorated, but in charcoal and silver, rather than different shades of green. He had also plastered the walls with Appleby Arrows posters (men and women in blue and silver costumes, flying on broomsticks, presumably playing Quidditch, which moved, but didn't talk) and there was a vast array of games, books, and puzzles strewn about. He flushed slightly as he explained that his mother had forbidden the elves to tidy for him more than once a week, and admitted that perhaps he would bother to do for himself, now she was there to see.

The robes he had been fitted for and his new school supplies were laid out on his bed, and he pronounced them all to be in order before officiously pulling clothes from his wardrobe, demonstrating the layers of formal dress they were expected to wear for dinner, and how to tie a tie. It was, basically, one of everything he had prodded her into buying at Madam Malkin's: slacks, shirt, vest and tie, with a robe over it all, though she could tell just by looking that the quality of the dinner robes he pulled out for himself was far nicer than anything Madam Malkin had had in stock.

Perhaps ten minutes later, as she was getting him to demonstrate the tie again, a bell rang to signal dinner. Still somewhat overawed by her surroundings, Hermione followed Draco quietly to what he referred to as the _Small_ Dining Room, which was still nearly half again as large as her parents'. If she wasn't completely turned around, it was about in the center of the house, on the second floor. Narcissa was already there, and explained that Lucius would be late. Hermione had the impression that without her, dinner would have been a very quiet, polite affair, but before she realized that, she had asked about Lammase'en, and what the holiday entailed, so instead of stiff silence, she and Draco were treated to a lecture on traditional magical holidays, and the Dark and Light Powers, and an explanation of the differences between the worship practices of the House of Black and the House of Malfoy.

Translating it all into more familiar terms, she understood the Malfoys as being rather like her own parents – the sort of family who went to church exactly two times a year, and otherwise didn't bother with religious nonsense. Except instead of Christmas and Easter, the Malfoys celebrated Samhain (Halloween) and Yule. The Blacks, including Narcissa, celebrated a whole host of holidays, including a two-day celebration called Lammas, on which they made sacrifices to the Dark Powers, which quite frankly sounded ominous.

"What exactly _are_ the Dark Powers," she asked rather hesitantly. "And, um… what kind of sacrifices do you make to them?"

Narcissa smiled, obviously pleased that _one_ of the children at her table was interested in her beliefs. "The short answer, of course, is that the Powers are the Powers. There are eight Dark Powers – realms of belief and effect which have magical weight or significance: Binding, Chaotic, Deathly, Deceptive, Destructive, Infernal, Solitary, and Tangible. They form dyads with their conceptual opposites, the Light Powers: Deliberative, Orderly, Lively, Naïve, Constructive, Mundane, Cooperative, and Intangible. All sixteen Powers may be called upon to affect good or ill, to cause joy or pain. Nearly any effect that can be achieved by invoking the Light Powers can also be achieved by invoking the Dark and vice versa. The labels of light and dark are ultimately political, and negotiated like any other aspect of social interaction and culture.

"Teasing apart the magic from the politics is a difficult task, but it helps if you can remember that what we think of as good and evil are human notions. Powers, like people, are neither one nor the other in absolute. The Deceptive Power, for example, governs wisdom, experience, and age alongside subterfuge and misdirection. The Solitary Power governs independence and self-sufficiency as well as self-interest. The Intangible Power governs both love and hate. The Naïve Power governs the thoughtlessness of youth as well as its potential.

"As I believe I mentioned, the House of Black follows the Dark, so for Lammas we honor the Binding Power, in much the same way the Light honor the Orderly Power. In the Black ritual, in which you are invited to participate, we offer up blood and magic to renew our ties to the Family and the Powers, and are rewarded as our minds and magic are strengthened against external influences. Break the binding, and the reward is revoked, leaving us vulnerable to those who would seek to compel or bind us."

"That sounds, um…"

"Way scarier than it actually is," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "You prick a finger on the athame and mother calls on the Binding Power, and you repeat the Acknowledgment of the Dark – and… I can't really describe the rest of it, but it's not that bad, and then, after, mother renews her vow of loyalty to the House of Black – we don't, obviously, because I'm the Heir of Malfoy, and you're the Heir of Potter – and then it's done."

"Why were you complaining, earlier, then?" Hermione hissed.

" _Because_ , it's positively _barbaric,_ " he whispered back, though apparently not quietly enough.

"I heard that, Draco Scorpius!" Narcissa glared at her son before turning to Hermione. "The Black rituals are among the most powerful still in use in Magical Britain, and accordingly the most _primal_ , but they are not and have never been _barbaric._ Draco simply doesn't like the sight of blood."

"It's _icky_."

His mother sighed. "Do endeavor to elevate your vocabulary, dear."

" _Revolting_ , then."

Hermione sniggered.

"Well, if you are both _quite_ done, we can retire to the Ritual Room and then, my darling son, you will not have to worry about seeing another drop of blood until… Samhain, I expect. Unless Severus decides to make your first month's potions lessons _really_ advanced."

"They do holiday rituals at Hogwarts, too?" Hermione asked, fascinated.

Narcissa smirked. "Not _officially_ , but the Second Rule of Slytherin House is _don't get caught_. Come along, boys."

_**Severus** _

Severus spent his afternoon in much the same fashion as Lucius, attempting to locate Petunia Evans and her husband Vernon Dursley. He had met the couple on multiple occasions, and had even accompanied Lily to their wedding, in the summer of '77. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Unfortunately he had little idea what had become of the shrew since he and Lily had graduated from Hogwarts.

The Death Eaters had _ways_ of tracking down even the most recalcitrant of muggles, on the rare occasion that they had wanted to target a particular one. With a bit of blood or hair, even from a second or third-degree relation, it would be a simple matter to brew an appropriate potion, or even create a simple scrying focus (though such magic was not his forte). Unfortunately, however, he had no such link to Petunia. He was hardly about to go accost the Malfoys in public or in their own home to acquire a bit of the child's hair, especially on Dumbledore's orders. To do so would tip his hand far too soon – it was far better to have some idea of the particulars of the situation before approaching them.

With only ten-year-old memories and a picture of her long-dead sister to guide him, it would take far more time and power than he was willing to invest in any Potter to find Petunia by magic. A handful of transfigured muggle coinage, a telephone directory, and a payphone would be much easier, albeit far more tedious. There were not so many Dursleys listed, but it did take some time to track down directories for various counties. He struck gold in Surrey, calling Petunia and remaining on the line just long enough to confirm that she was Mrs. V. Dursley of 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging. After that, it was a simple matter to locate a map of the town, calculate the proper apparition coordinates, and interrupt the suburbanites' desperately normal dinner plans.

He did not bother knocking at the unlocked door of the depressingly hyper-mundane home. How _anyone_ could stand living in such mass-produced houses, Severus didn't know. He might have hated their rundown neighborhood in Cokeworth every bit as much as the Evans girls had, but at least the homes there had _character_ and _history_. This was like walking into some _geminio_ -struck nightmare. The only distinguishing feature of Number 4 was a quickly-decaying perimeter-ward that tugged half-heartedly at his Dark Mark as he crossed it.

The inside of the… house wasn't much better – not just clean and tidy, but _sterile_. He would be hard-pressed to believe anyone lived there at all. It looked like the sort of thing you would see in a magazine, if not for the revolting photos of a morbidly obese blonde child perched on several flat surfaces. He looked much like a washed-out, less-fit version of his father. Hideous.

The child in question was the first person to notice his appearance in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, his mother occupied in nattering on about the neighbors and her husband fully engaged in the casserole heaped on his plate.

"Who're you?" the boy asked rudely.

The adults looked around, at that, Vernon letting out a roar of objection, and Petunia shrieking at the top of her lungs. He couldn't help but snigger slightly at that. It was never not funny to sneak up on Petunia. Her reaction hadn't changed appreciably in twenty-five years.

"Severus Snape, what the bloody hell are you doing here?!"

"Can't an old family friend drop by for dinner?" he asked, taking an uninvited seat.

"Oh no you don't," Vernon objected. "I remember you, you ruddy blighter! You were that creepy bloke my Pet's worthless sister used to – gak!"

"Severus! Don't!" Petunia screeched. Severus, who had not, in fact, done anything other than glare particularly fiercely, causing Vernon to choke on a bit of his own spittle, gave her his best mocking stare.

"Do you know what I did after I graduated, Petunia?" he asked conversationally.

"No! And I don't care!"

"Oh, but I think you do. You see, I joined an… organization. A _revolution,_ you might say… though that's not what our enemies called us, of course." He delighted in the expression of terror that formed on the woman's sharp features.

"Y-you were one of – one of _them_ ," she accused him feebly. "Those murdering freaks!"

"Mum? What's going on? Who is he?" the boy asked petulantly. Severus silenced him with a glare before inclining his head ever so slightly.

"You and your… husband may want to take that into consideration when you speak of Lily in my presence."

"W-what do you want?"

"Tell me about… Harry Potter," he commanded, using silent legilimency to slip behind her eyes. The name sparked anger, resentment, even the slightest bit of guilt, and fear, almost overwhelming – a heady combination. The images that accompanied it were rage-inspiring: Petunia spreading lies about her troublemaking nephew; a little boy, a James Potter look-alike, with Lily's eyes, being forced to clean and cook to 'earn his keep,' watching piteously as the other boy was favored over him at every turn, being thrown into a wall by Vernon, having his glasses broken by the other boy, cowering before Petunia as she screeched at him, being thrown into the cupboard under the stairs, where he _slept_ ; police showing up and taking the child away…

"We took him in, the ungrateful little bastard – treated him like our own son."

Severus barred his teeth at the woman. "Don't _lie_ to me, _Pet_. You never could…"

Petunia shuddered. "Are you calling my wife a liar?" Vernon rumbled, desperately attempting to have some input into the conversation.

The wizard raised an eyebrow at him, implying that he was too stupid to live. " _Yes_."

"Bloody fucking freak, barging in here unannounced – I ought to…"

"Ought to _what_ , Vernon?" Severus asked, pulling his wand slowly from his sleeve.

"Put it away! We're not having any of that freakish nonsense here in this house!" The ruddy-faced man was going an interesting puce color.

"Oh, I hardly need a wand to ruin your life," he sneered, complying, but catching the muggle's eye and planting a compulsion in his subconscious, " _Vernon._ " The man stood up from his seat with a look of pure horror, and slammed his head into the nearest wall.

His wife and son screamed. "Dad!" "Vernon!" The man slammed his head into the wall again, and fell to the ground. Petunia rushed to help him to his feet.

Severus had to work very hard not to laugh. Who knew the Dark Lord's favorite parlor trick would one day come in handy? Wordless, wandless compulsions were not his specialty, and they hardly made an impact on a wary wizard, but they could be used to great effect on muggles. Vernon Dursley in particular was so weak-minded he would probably be beating his head against walls every time he heard his name for the next two weeks.

"What've you done to him, you monster?" Petunia cried, while the boy cowered behind his parents.

" _Magic_ ," he said spitefully, taking great pleasure in the horror evident on her horsey face. "Would you care to reconsider your previous response regarding your nephew?"

"What about him, then? We want nothing to do with him! We never did!"

"Oh, _that_ was _obvious_ , Tuney, _darling_." He let as much venom as possible slip into his tone, moderated and controlled as ever. She blanched.

"He's gone! He's gone! CPS came and got him, and they took him away, and good riddance!"

The professor stood, to loom more intimidatingly over her. "Child Services came and took away your sister's son – the one you made sleep in a closet, the one you let your husband toss around, the one you _lied_ about, and treated like a servant-boy, whom you stood by and watched as your son _beat_ , whose life you made into a _mockery_ of familial _normality –_ and you have the nerve to call _me_ a monster. What have I done to him, you ask? _Far_ less than Lily would have, were she the one standing here before you to see what you have done to her son! Your parents would be _so_ ashamed of what you've become," he fumed, shaking his head. It was true. Mr. and Mrs. Evans had never liked him much, but he had known them well enough to know that they would never have stood for their daughter to treat their grandson so abominably.

Apparently invoking them was one step too far for the enraged housewife. "Don't you speak of them!" she shrieked, attempting to stab him with her dinner knife. He removed it from her deftly. "You killed them! You and your war! You admitted it! You were one of _them_! It was freaks like you who killed my parents!"

That was… also true. He had even been there in person, the night the Evanses were killed. But he would not be spoken to like that. Not by a _child abuser_ like Petunia Dursley. "It's people like _you_ that are the reason people like _me_ exist!" he hissed, nose to nose with her. " _You deserve everything you get!_ "

He turned on his heel in a swirl of black, apparating away from the miserable muggles before he did something even more unfortunate than _compelling_ Dursley, like force the harpy to claw her own eyes out.

He did not return to his rooms, but walked slowly up toward the Castle, finding a seat near the Lake to meditate instead. He was still trying to bring his emotions under control and deciding exactly how to deal with the new information – that Harry Potter ( _Lily's child_ ) had, in fact, been abused and neglected by his relatives, and could not possibly be returned to them from the Malfoy's hands – when a St. Mungo's Messenger Elf appeared beside him, desperately seeking his assistance. He went. Whatever emergency required a potions master or mind healer with expertise in the Dark Arts was bound to be suitably distracting as to be a relief from his current preoccupation.

_**Hermione** _

The Malfoy Family Ritual Room was a stark space, much plainer than the rest of the house: an undecorated stone box with vaulted ceilings, and a large, complicated star and circle design carved into the floor, filled with what Draco said was silver and iron. A skylight over the center of the room let a bit of moonlight filter in, adding a touch of eerie mystery to the space. There was a sense of magical potential in the air, much like the feeling that had permeated the wand shop, but there was also something… un-lived-in about it, as though the room was hardly ever used.

Narcissa ignored the large, central design, leading the children to a small altar at the northernmost corner of the room. This was made of a single, rough-hewn bluestone, which reminded Hermione of Stonehenge, topped with a slab of some polished black stone. The black stone had a labyrinthine design carved into it. There were three fresh candles along the far side, in holders covered with waterfalls of old wax. Narcissa lit them with a whisper and a spark dancing straight from her fingers, and the air filled with the scent of beeswax.

The light of the candles showed a depression in the center of the labyrinth, a clear crystal goblet, and a black-bladed, wickedly sharp-looking knife. Narcissa bowed her head as though praying for a long moment. Hermione looked to Draco in confusion. He bumped her shoulder with his own and gave her a small smile. She returned it, silently resolving to just follow his lead.

Then Narcissa began to speak.

"Dark Powers," she called, her voice at first as quiet as a whisper, but quickly gaining in strength, resonating around them. "I stand before you on this night of power, a Daughter of the House of Black, to renew my ties to the Dark and my Family. I bring before you my son, young but powerful, known to you, and my ward, ignorant of our ways, but eager to learn and to take his rightful place in this, our world of magic. Darkness, I call to you, begging a sign – hear me, and heed my call!"

The goblet began to glow softly, drinking in the light from the candles and radiating it back. The space around it seemed to grow darker in comparison. The lady lifted it with both hands, in a sort of salute, before settling it on the altar again, closer to the children, and taking up the knife. She pricked her son's finger gently, and squeezed it until three drops had fallen into the crystal, then turned to do the same to Hermione. Hermione hesitated, because _this is how you get AIDS_ , but then shook her head and held out a finger. She was being silly. Draco had done it, after all, and it couldn't be worse than the goblin knife, earlier. She hadn't seen _that_ sterilized, either.

Hermione's blood joined Draco's in the cup, followed by Narcissa's. The witch then added what had to be some kind of alcohol, a flask taken from the pocket of her robes – the fumes burned Hermione's nose and eyes from here – and raised the goblet again.

"I call upon the Binding Power, by the names of Black, of Malfoy and Potter, to witness our dedication to the Dark!" she declaimed, before pouring the contents of the goblet into the depression at the center of the altar. The liquid defied gravity, rising and spreading to fill the labyrinth, the candle light glinting off it like black ice.

"I dedicate myself to the dark," she said clearly. "By my name, my blood, and my magic, let it know me."

Draco repeated the sentence, and then, when she hesitated, pinched Hermione, who did the same. This must be the Acknowledgment he had mentioned.

"I welcome the magic of the night and the space between the stars – come into my heart and be one with me."

Again, the children repeated the ritual phrase.

"I give myself over to the powers of the dark, and claim for myself their strength."

A cold, tingling energy seemed to fill Hermione as she repeated the third phrase, raising her up and tying her down all at once.

"Blood and magic I offer as symbol of this covenant – let the Powers guide me, in seeking the blessing of the Dark."

As soon as these words left Hermione's mouth, the cold, tingling magic seemed to take her over, raising her left hand and thrusting it out, against her will, over the labyrinth. She felt terror rise up within her as she realized she could not stop it, could not put her hand down. Narcissa, with an otherworldly smile, looked down at her and said, "Don't be afraid," and then the candles went out, and the alcohol filling the labyrinthine altar design burst into white flames.

Hermione shrieked, Narcissa's admonishment not to be afraid meaning very little when faced with the sight of her hand in a goddamn fire. It took a long moment for the reality that her skin was not burning to break through the gibbering panic that filled her mind. She couldn't have said how long the fire burned, curling around her fingers, at first warm, but growing ever colder. The chill crept up her arm, spreading through her chest and then the rest of her body. Just when it felt like she would never be warm again, something within her twisted, and suddenly, every feeling of discomfort vanished. By the time the fire extinguished itself, she was only breathing slightly too fast, and her heart rate had mostly recovered from her fright.

Draco, nose to nose with her, was smirking. He took her arm, still held out over the altar, and pulled it down, before pulling her away from the altar entirely. "That's our part done," he whispered in her ear, and she nodded, shaken.

They watched in silence as Narcissa brought a stone out of her pocket, black, with shimmering traces of red fire within it. Hermione gasped, at first, thinking it an enormous opal, before she realized that the light was coming from within the stone. The lady set it within the now-empty hollow of the altar, and sliced her palm above it. She gave no sign of pain, but within seconds, fat, black drops were falling like rain. The stone seemed to be drinking them in, the red at its heart growing brighter.

"I am Narcissa Zaniah, youngest daughter of the House of Black. On this, the night of Binding, I recall and re-affirm the bonds of Family: to those long departed, to those absent from me, and to those yet to come. I remember from whence we came, and… and I beg the Powers recognize the sacrifice I have laid before them, and show me the way into the future." This time, the words were honest and simple, with no trace of the resonant power her previous invocation had held. There were tears on the lady's cheeks as she stood, head bowed and, Hermione suddenly understood, _begging_ before her gods. "Please," she whispered, "do not let the Eternal House fade into obscurity."

And then there was another woman present – or rather, darkness distilled into the shape of a woman. She? It? Appeared without pomp or circumstance or any sort of ceremony, walking slowly from the patch of moonlight at the center of the room to the shadowed corner and the crying witch. From the way Draco stiffened beside her and let out a small 'eep,' Hermione gathered that this had not been expected. The woman-shaped darkness, its features obscure, reached out and lifted Narcissa's chin to meet the place where its eyes ought to have been.

"Narcissa Zaniah," it spoke, its words coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, reaching Hermione's mind, she thought, by some route other than her ears. "The misbegotten flower of the Blacks, now no longer one of them, and yet the only one left loyal to both the family and the Dark…"

Narcissa's eyes flashed as she stood straight in the face of the power she worshipped, a goddess come to Earth. "By the grace of the Dark, I am and always will be a Black in every way that matters."

An unsettling chuckle filled the room, like a tiger's growl. "You know the stories, little flower. The Covenant has been broken – a child of Black has turned away from the Dark, and so we withdraw the gifts of Onyx and Mela."

"It wasn't his fault!"

"The reason matters not, little flower. The Covenant is broken."

"But it can be foraged anew! I have brought you his Heir!" Narcissa bargained. "In time he will succeed, and the House will once again be devoted to the Dark."

"No," the Darkness said, its tone final and without remorse. "There is no guarantee of that – the future is yet unwritten. The Name is lost and the House of Black is fallen these ten years and more... For your sacrifice, which offers a _chance_ of redemption… we will offer a _chance_ in turn, but no promise. Be warned, little flower, eternity is no longer yours by right."

Narcissa gasped, falling to her knees and reaching up in supplication. "Thank you! Thank you! The indulgence of your grace will not be wasted."

"One has sundered himself from us irreparably. One has done the same to you. These are beyond saving. Three are lost, but may yet be found within our realms: One to age, one to madness, one to a too-early death. You must choose, Narcissa Zaniah, choose and let your stolen sacrifice buy the House of Black a second chance."

Narcissa, stared, eyes wide, for a long moment before she whispered, " _Regulus_. Bring back the one lost to death."

"So shall it be," the Darkness whispered, everywhere and nowhere. It – she – bowed, as though to brush a kiss across Narcissa's brow, then vanished as silently as it had appeared. A bare second later, a body appeared with a crack in the patch of moonlight at the center of the room, soaking wet, battered and bleeding. He struggled for air for a moment before falling still. Hermione leapt into action without thinking, years of swimming lessons and their accompanying first-aid training shocking her into movement at the sight of a man drowning on dry land.

So far as she could tell, there was nothing blocking his airways but water, and his heart was still beating, if weakly. She forced as much air as she could into his lungs. It wasn't much, but a bit of water burbled out. Before she could attempt a second breath, Narcissa came to her senses and cast some kind of bluish-purple spell at the man. He began coughing up water immediately. His eyes opened, wide and panicked, briefly, and then he passed out again.

"Mopsy!" Narcissa shouted, and the little towel-clad creature appeared with a pop. "Take us to St. Mungo's Emergency at once!"

The elf looked around, saw Regulus, and gave a squeak of horror before grabbing its mistress' hand, touching the man's bare leg, and vanishing with a crack.

Hermione and Draco were left staring at the spot where they had been, rather shocked.

"What just happened?" Hermione asked after a very long moment.

"I think my cousin Regulus just came back from the dead. Um… mostly."

"Oh." What else was there to say? "Is that… normal?"

"Not really, no."

After another long minute, Draco struggled to his feet, then helped Hermione up. "We should…"

"Yeah. Um…"

They wandered back to the house, each lost in their own thoughts. Hermione followed Draco back to their rooms, where she decided a very long, very hot shower was in order, followed by many hours writing down everything that had happened while it was all fresh in her mind. It had been an extremely long day, and she wasn't really sure she understood everything (or anything) that had happened.

By the end of it, she had decided one thing was for certain: 'Whatever happened next' was now, definitely, happening.


	4. The Morning After

**Thursday 1 August 1991**

**_Lucius_ **

Severus Snape was very obviously _not_ in a good mood. This would doubtless come as no surprise to most people who had met him – his fellow professors remembered him as a disgruntled student, had seen him grow into a bitter man; his own students experienced him as strict and harsh; on the rare occasion that he was called to St. Mungo's to lend an expert hand to the reversal of a particularly dark and complex spell or potion, his patients, without fail, considered him to have the worst bedside manner of any Healer they'd ever met.

Lucius, on the other hand, _was_ slightly surprised. Granted, part of that was due to the fact that Severus Snape had made himself at home at Lucius' table. And part of it was due to the fact that the potions master was awake so early – it had just gone six. But on the rare occasion that he saw Snape outside of Hogwarts, he tended to be in a relatively good mood, or at least amiably snarky. The glower he was wearing at the moment rivalled some of those Lucius had seen when the younger wizard had been completing his Potions Mastery and weathering Bellatrix's suspicions regarding his loyalty.

Lucius had reluctantly dragged himself out of bed at his usual half-past five after getting in around eleven to find the children abed and his wife absent. The elves had babbled something about St. Mungo's. He had established that Narcissa was only visiting someone – neither she nor Draco was injured – and waved off the rest of the explanation in favor of bed. He'd had far too many drinks with Augustine. They'd been joined by Nott and Avery after dinner, and he'd been obliged to begin explaining his position on the Potter boy _again_ , with even more alcohol. He was satisfied in the end that they would pass on the word that the Potter boy was not to be harmed while in his care – he was far more valuable at the moment as a political token or even a potential recruit than as a sacrifice for an absent lord. But he wasn't in a particularly good mood himself.

"Lucius," Snape nodded briefly.

"Severus," Lucius nodded back.

Snape passed him the front section of the Prophet. The headline screamed _Harry Potter Claims Abuse – Headmaster Dumbledore to Blame?_ That _was_ enough to cheer Lucius slightly. A few days under the full glare of Rita Skeeter's near-libelous "reporting" spotlight should nicely hamper Dumbledore's side of custody battle, regardless of the Diggorys' suitability. And he hadn't even had to tip her off.

"Narcissa mentioned you spent last night discussing recent political developments with some of the old crowd."

"Yaxley, Nott, and Avery," Lucius nodded. "They seemed receptive to mine and Narcissa's strategy. They've agreed to spread the word not to interfere."

"Have you spoken with Narcissa lately?"

"She was still abed when I looked in on her."

Snape scowled. "She said she would wake you to speak with you. We only returned from St. Mungo's two hours ago."

"Ah, yes," Lucius drawled. "The elves did mention something about one of her cousins being in hospital – Walburga, was it?" There weren't so very many Blacks left, truly.

"Regulus," Snape said shortly.

"Regulus? But…"

"It was him," the Potions Master insisted.

"Are you sure?"

"He was in no state to fend off a legilimency probe. There can be no doubt."

"But we saw – We were there when Bellatrix burned his body!"

"My understanding is that Narcissa sacrificed Harry Potter's Choice to dedicate himself to the Dark in exchange for a chance to revive her fallen House."

" _What_?!" Lucius heard his own question echoed from the doorway at a much higher frequency.

"What does that even _mean?_ " Harry Potter stood in the doorway, mouth gaping.

"Dark Powers, she didn't… How?"

"Regulus' return argues that she did. As for how… Sit down, Mr. Potter."

The boy hesitated, but, after a moment, did as he was told, taking the seat across from Snape and pouring himself a glass of juice.

Lucius formulated introductions automatically: "Severus, this is Harry James, Heir Ascendant of the Noble House of Potter. Jamie, meet Potions Master Severus Snape, Senior Professor and Head of Slytherin House at Hogwarts."

"Professor? How do you do. I've got about a hundred questions for you, if you've time – about the school and the Headmaster and books and things – I've got a list! But first, what was that about 'sacrificing Harry Potter's choice to dedicate himself to the Dark?'" The boy glared at the two men suspiciously. "Does it have something to do with Draco's cousin showing up out of nowhere?"

Snape raised an eyebrow at this display of early-morning enthusiasm and took a long, deliberate draught from his coffee before responding: "Mr. Potter. How do you do."

Lucius smirked at his entirely unamused tone. Jamie wasn't really any worse than Draco on a tear, but Snape had always been far more reserved, even when _he_ was eleven and Lucius was fourteen. He was certain the younger wizard was having flash-backs of James Potter and Lily Evans, both of whom had been as outgoing as their son. "Draco's cousin?" he asked.

"Draco said that his cousin Regulus seemed to have come back from the dead, mostly."

"Regulus is Narcissa's first-cousin – your godfather's brother," Lucius explained. "He died in 1979 after betraying the Dark Lord – or, well… attempting to do so."

"And Ms. Narcissa brought him back to life? How?"

"That, I think, is something we would all like to know," Snape noted.

Lucius nodded. "You were the one who was there. I'm afraid you shall have to tell us," he told the child.

"Oh!" the boy bit his lip. "Well, um… let's see. We had dinner, and Ms. Narcissa told Draco and me all about the Powers and the traditional holidays, and then we went to the Ritual Room. We used the bluestone altar, with the black carved labyrinth-thing on top." Lucius nodded. The Black Family Altar. It was the only part of the ritual room that received regular use, given his family's disinclination to observe the Old Holidays over the past few generations. "Right, well, she lit the candles, and asked the Darkness for a sign that it? They? Were listening. Um… do you want exact words?"

"Not necessary," Snape declared.

"Okay, so this crystal goblet started glowing, and she picked it up and kind of raised it toward the altar, like a salute. And then she pricked Draco's finger for three drops of blood, and then mine, and then her own, that went into the goblet, and then some kind of alcohol, and then she poured it into the labyrinth. After that, said she was dedicating herself to the dark welcoming the darkness into her heart and giving herself to the Dark Powers in exchange for their strength, and seeking their blessing. Draco and I repeated each line after her. And then our hands were kind of like… held out over the labyrinth – I wasn't doing it, but I couldn't help it. And the alcohol burst into flames, which was _terrifying_ , but it burnt _cold_ , like it was ice, spreading through my body, and then when I felt like I'd never be warm again, it was like something in me… twisted, maybe? And it stopped being cold, and the fire burnt itself out, and then Draco said we – the two of us – were done."

Lucius exchanged a look with Snape. "Well, that explains how she managed to sacrifice his choice in the matter," Snape observed.

"What do you mean?" the child asked, with poorly masked anger in his tone. "What did she do to me?"

"Jamie," Lucius said gently. "What did you think you were doing, when you repeated the words Narcissa and Draco were saying?"

"I was just being polite! That's what you _do_ when other people invite you to their church! You go and you follow along and –"

Snape coughed slightly, interrupting the boy's tirade. "There is rather less _faith_ in magical rituals than muggle Christian observations," he said drily. "By swearing yourself to the Dark, giving it your blood, inviting it into yourself – you invited it to attune your magic to the darker end of the power spectrum. That would be the part where it felt like something inside you twisted, and you were suddenly comfortable with the presence of the dark magic in the fire."

"So – so, what? I was just _tricked_ into joining the Dark Side?!"

"Ah…" Lucius hesitated, reluctant to alienate the child, but that did rather describe what had happened.

"Yes," Snape said, his tone betraying absolutely no emotional investment in the child's reaction whatsoever.

"But… but she and Draco made it sound like I was just… just acknowledging the fact that the Powers _existed_ , not selling my soul, for Christ's sake!"

"Stop being so dramatic, Potter." Snape rolled his eyes. Dramatically. Lucius suppressed a snigger. "I'm a dark wizard. Lucius is a dark wizard. Narcissa is a Black, so they probably dedicated her at age three or something. It's not the end of the world, I _assure_ you."

Lucius nodded hastily. "Draco was dedicated when he was seven. All it really means is that you'll find it much easier to cast dark spells and somewhat uncomfortable to cast light spells."

"And White Arts are out of the question," Snape added.

"No one uses White Arts anymore," Lucius pointed out, shooting the younger wizard a glare that said _shut up, you moron._

Snape ignored it, adding: "In the interests of full disclosure."

"What are White Arts? And why are they out of the question?"

"They're rituals that call on the Light Powers, or the Light as an entity, to effect a result," the Potions Master explained. "Black Arts call on the Dark Powers or the Dark. The Light Powers generally do not answer the call of dark wizards, especially those whose magic was attuned through dedication, rather than practice."

"Well, there _was_ Evans..." Lucius pointed out, ribbing Snape for his refusal to heed the _shut up_ glare.

"She dedicated herself to _both_ Light and Dark. Mabon of '75 and Ostara of '76, respectively."

Lucius shook his head violently. "What? That's not even possible!"

Snape shrugged. "I doubt anyone told her that. I certainly didn't."

"You're telling me a fifteen-year-old mud – _muggleborn_ ," he corrected himself at the Potions Master's glare, "managed to achieve… Fuck. No wonder Bella didn't want us to kill her."

"Evans…" the boy said thoughtfully, obviously distracted from his former irritation over Narcissa's trick. "Any relation to Lily Evans?"

"The same," Snape answered shortly. "Yes, your mother. Yes, we knew her. And no, we're not talking about her now. What happened after you dedicated yourself to the Dark?"

The child frowned slightly. "Ms. Narcissa set a stone on the altar, and cut her hand over it, badly. She… she said something about re-affirming the bonds of family and begged the Powers not to let the Eternal House fade into obscurity. A… it wasn't a woman. More like a hole in the universe, shaped like a woman?"

"The Dark, or Darkness," Snape corrected him.

"Right. So. Um, the Dark appeared, and spoke. It called Ms. Narcissa the 'misbegotten flower of the Blacks' and told her she wasn't one of them anymore. She said she was, and the Dark said that the Covenant was broken."

Lucius groaned. He didn't know exactly what was going on, but a Covenant between the House of Black and the Dark Powers seemed like the sort of thing they _would_ do. Mad bloody barbarians, the lot of them.

Potter gave him a curious look, but he nodded for the boy to continue. "Well, Ms. Narcissa said something about re-foraging the Covenant – that she had brought his heir – not sure whose – the one who broke the Covenant, maybe?"

Snape poured himself another cup of coffee, staring at it as though it was some sort of lifeline. "Sirius. It would have been Sirius Black, who broke the Covenant. He is the only Black to whom you, Potter, could be considered an heir, and he is the only one among them who would have attempted to reject the Dark."

"Um… okay," the boy said hesitantly. "But wasn't he, you know, one of M. Voleur's?"

Snape snorted, presumably at the appellation, unless it was at the idea that _Sirius Black_ was actually a Death Eater. Lucius smirked at him. "Not hardly," the Potions Master drawled.

"Wait – but then… why's he in prison?"

"Clerical error?" Snape suggested innocently.

Lucius chuckled. In truth, it was a combination of pettiness, misinterpreted sarcasm (on Snape's part), bad press, ministry incompetence, and Black Family Politics. The remaining Dark supporters outside of Azkaban were not willing to risk their own freedom in an attempt to defend Black's innocence, given that he had been one of the most effective Light fighters, his mother and Narcissa considered him a Blood Traitor, and the remainder of the Light was thoroughly convinced that he had betrayed his best friend and his wife to their deaths at the Dark Lord's hands. Even if that particular action had resulted in the Dark Lord's disappearance, the Light held little love for a traitor.

" _Clerical error?_ "

"Just because he fought against the Dark Lord doesn't mean he didn't do anything deserving of gaol," the professor snapped at the child's challenging tone. "The myriad failings of Sirius Black are a topic for another time."

"What happened after Narcissa told the Dark that she had brought you to it?" Lucius asked, dragging the conversation back on-topic.

"Well, then she said the House could once again be devoted to the Dark, but it said no, there was no guarantee that it would be, and that the name of Black was lost, and the House fallen for 'ten years and more.' It – they? Said that for her sacrifice, _me_ , I guess, they would offer a single chance, but that eternity was no longer hers – or maybe _theirs_ – by right."

Lucius groaned. He could see where this was going.

"She thanked the Dark, and then the Dark said, 'One has sundered himself from us irreparably. One has done the same to you. These are beyond saving. Three are lost, but may yet be found within our realms: One to age, one to madness, one to a too-early death. You must choose, Narcissa Zaniah, choose and let your sacrifice buy the House of Black a second chance.'

"And Ms. Narcissa said, ' _Regulus_. Bring back the one lost to death.'

"And then the Dark said, 'So shall it be,' and vanished, and he, Regulus, appeared in the middle of the room, drowning, and I tried to give him mouth-to-mouth, and Ms. Narcissa did some sort of spell to make him cough up the water, and then Ms. Narcissa called Mopsy to take them to the emergency room, and then Draco and I went to bed, because we didn't know what else to do."

There was a long beat of stunned silence, wherein the men stared at the boy, and the boy spread marmalade on toast, before Lucius said, "And you, Severus? What was your role in all this?"

"The hospital called me in because a patient was under some combination of dark potions that defied their standard analytics. I'll leave it to Regulus and Narcissa to explain the circumstances of administration. I'm bound by my consultancy contract not to reveal the specific details of the cases I address."

Lucius _harrumphed_. "But we saw his body burn!"

"Do you truly think it beyond the reach of the Dark Powers to pull him forward in time, leaving a copy of his body in his place?"

"But time travel doesn't _work_ like that!"

"Don't talk to me about how time travel works," Snape said with a glare, momentarily looking at least as old as Lucius. "You know as well as I do that the universe is far more complex than even we wizards ever experience."

"Time travel exists?" Jamie piped up, breaking the uncomfortable silence developing between the two (former) Death Eaters.

"Well, Black certainly isn't a necromantic construct, so what do you think?" Snape snapped.

"Um…" the child bit his lip again, and Snape relented.

"Yes, time travel exists. Lucius, might I have a word with the child in private?"

Lucius shrugged elegantly. "Take any parlor or sitting room you like. I'm the one still eating," he pointed out. The child had long since finished his eggs and toast, and Snape's plate was entirely untouched.

The man poured himself yet another cup of coffee and stood abruptly. "Potter, come with me," he ordered, sweeping from the room.

Lucius nodded at the boy when he hesitated, and he scrambled to follow.

_**Hermione** _

Hermione did not know what to make of this strange Professor Snape. Master Snape?

Narcissa, she had decided, whilst recording her observations the previous night, was dangerous, under her pretty, perfect-lady mask. A consummate liar. That assessment only gained credence the more she thought on the ritual the lady had deftly maneuvered her into. Hermione had thought the Lady Malfoy was unguarded when it had just been her and the children, but now she suspected that she might have only seen the true Narcissa in the ritual room, when she was crying and begging her gods to save the Black family. She had no doubt, now, that the Lady had been honest when she told the Headmaster that she would destroy him without warning, with no indication of her movements until she was poised to strike, nor that she was fully capable of doing so, even if he was forewarned.

Lucius was more obviously a schemer, but the sort whose plans you could see coming a mile off. He clearly just counted on having enough power and leverage to roll right over anyone who stood in his way. He was straightforward, accustomed to getting his own way – a well-connected business-man with powerful allies and a lot of money behind him, unless she completely misread him. She imagined that he and Narcissa together were a formidable team – he the obvious one, the one that everyone thought was the true danger – and while he _was_ dangerous, he was the sort of danger you could plan for, and avoid, if you were careful. She could see so easily how it must work: while their enemies attempted to avoid Lucius, they forgot about Narcissa, who slipped around behind them, cut their knees out from under them, and slipped away before they even realized she'd been there at all.

Snape gave off an impression somewhat like Lucius, simply because he didn't try at all to be personable, like Narcissa. She vaguely recalled Draco mentioning that he was the best professor at Hogwarts, and the adult Malfoys had not disagreed with that assessment. She had expected him to be older, not in his early or mid-thirties. She decided, reflecting on the hints from the conversation they had just had that he gave off an air of _competence,_ half-hidden behind his mask of a curmudgeonly-ness. He clearly knew as much or more than Lucius about religion and the Powers and time travel, and hadn't he mentioned necromancy, too? Plus he had been called in as an expert opinion to help what had to be the best healers money could buy – she couldn't see Narcissa having taken her undead cousin to anyone less than the best.

She wasn't certain, but she thought he might be the most dangerous of the three.

He led her down a short hallway, to a lightly-decorated, well-lit sitting room, and gestured for her to have a seat.

"Who are you?" he asked, taking the chair next to hers. They had been arranged to encourage conversation, like something out of a magazine. She, in her new, Draco-approved khaki slacks and pastel button-up, almost looked like she belonged, but Professor Snape, in his very severe black-on-black attire, seemed completely out of place. "And _don't_ say Harry Potter."

She swallowed hard. She had _not_ been expecting _that_ question.

"How did you know?" she asked, completely forgetting to answer in her astonishment.

"Oh, _I_ don't know. It _couldn't_ have been your projecting, ' _But I'm not Harry Potter,'_ in your panic when we were discussing Narcissa dedicating you to the Dark, or the fact that you hesitated every time Lucius or I used your name, or the fact that there is a very distinctly _feminine_ feel to your mind. Take your pick, and answer my question."

"Hermione," she said, with a great sigh of relief to have found a wizard who might be able to help her, or who at least wouldn't think her mad for believing herself _not_ to be Harry Potter. "I'm Hermione Granger. My parents are Dan and Emma Granger. They're muggles. They live in Kent. I just woke up one morning in this wretched little cupboard under the stairs at the Dursley house in Surrey – I don't know what happened! It was like – like some sort of mind-swap, out of a bad sci-fi novel! I've just been muddling through for the last… ten days. Eleven counting today. It was Monday, the twenty-second."

The professor opened his mouth as though to say something, then closed it, as though he had thought better of it. He glared at her as though she was deliberately trying to make his life difficult, then said, "I am going to use a mind magic technique called Legilimency to examine your memories and verify your story."

" _Mens_ is mind… and _legili_ … is that the same root as _legible_? Mind-reading?"

"Nothing so straightforward as _reading_ , despite the name," the wizard sneered. "A product of the name of the discipline having been coined by those with no natural talent for the subject. _Erminévo_ captures it far better than _lego_ , the information reconstructed and translated from one mind to another, rather than _picked out_ … but I digress. Look into my eyes. It should be fairly painless, as you've obviously no training whatsoever."

"Um… okay?" she did as she was told, despite the half a dozen questions whirling through her mind about _legilimency_ and how it worked and where it came from and what it was really like and why it should hurt if one _had_ training, and if everyone had the ability, like some sort of latent ESP, and whether stories of ESP and telekinesis and the like were actually just wizards not being careful to hide themselves from everyone else, or kids like her, who hadn't realized they were magic because no one ever told them, and why that was, anyway.

Severus Snape's eyes were very dark, set deep in his sallow face, under heavy brows, which gave them a shadowed look, but despite that, as she looked into them, they seemed to almost glitter, fascinating and difficult to look away from.

After several long seconds, she began to wonder whether anything was happening. Before she could ask, she was thrown into a series of memories.

_**Severus** _

Severus sighed (to himself) as he led the child to one of the parlors Narcissa had decorated. This was exactly what this week needed.

First, Harry Potter, abused child, escaped from Petunia's custody, escaped from Dumbledore's custody, and managed to be taken in by the Malfoys. So far, so mundane, if not necessarily _expected_. 'Find Harry Potter, determine whether he was being abused by Petunia, and if not retrieve him from Malfoy Manor,' was a fairly tame assignment, coming from Dumbledore (never mind that he had had to translate it from the old man's usual obnoxiously naïve, self-justifying assumptions – that was standard fare).

He had _not_ predicted that in less than twelve hours, the child would be used by Narcissa Malfoy to bring back Regulus Black, simultaneously biasing him strongly toward dark magic. Dumbledore was bound to be insufferable, and not a little upset when he finally found out – which would _not_ be from Severus, if he could help it – not after he had made that crack about the worst the Malfoys could do being convincing the boy that the sun didn't shine out of the Old Goat's arsehole. Though Severus didn't consider it a major problem, Dumbledore would definitely consider the Boy Hero Chosen Savior Prophesied Light Defeater of the Dark Lord having been dedicated to the Dark to be a Bad Thing.

Then, as though the universe was not having enough fun at his expense, Regulus revealed that the Dark Lord had a Horcrux, thus explaining his failure to die properly back in '81, but even destroying said horcrux (with fiendfire, in a fucking _hospital room_ , because all Blacks were clearly fucking _insane_ ) did not cause the Dark Mark to entirely fade, suggesting that there had been more than one of the blasted things. After an hour convincing the hospital staff not to chuck himself and Narcissa out for pinging every single Dark Arts ward in the wing with the fucking fiendfire (which Narcissa coolly denied had existed at all, let alone that she had cast it, despite the _very obvious scorch mark_ on the floor and the smell of brimstone in the air), the three had spent another three hours holding what amounted to a council of war.

It had not taken too long for the trio to agree that they would unite in the goal of finishing off the Dark Lord. They all had their reasons:

Severus found that he simultaneously wished to smack Regulus 'round the head, and congratulate him for realizing that the Death Eaters – the war – had never been for him. The youngest Black had apparently suffered an attack of the so-called Black Madness in the hours before the Glastonbury battle, and had decided that instead of dying for his sworn lord, whom he now recognized as a madman himself, he would make the ridiculously Gryffindor decision to mount an attack on the horcrux, assigning an elf to destroy it before attempting to commit suicide via inferi under the effects of an hallucinogenic pain potion. Trust Regulus to go berserk in a way that made him act ridiculously noble and selfless. He really had always been too soft for his family, for the Death Eaters, despite his ambitions to please them. But there was no going back for him now, not after having been denounced as a traitor by the Dark Lord himself, twelve years prior.

Narcissa made a few veiled comments about _family_ and _flexibility_ , but Severus knew how much effort she had gone to in preparing Lucius' Imperius defense. Based on the official memory copies he had examined for Dumbledore, she had begun laying that back door _years_ before the Dark Lord's fall. She had polyjuiced herself as Bellatrix and _actually imperiused_ him to submit to the Dark Lord's orders. He had been able to show dozens of legitimate raids, revels, and even battles, where the memories were unmistakably tainted by the golden glow of the curse. The Marking Ceremony itself had been a master-work of memory-editing, every emotion on-point, including the unique sensation of an Imperius being broken by the pain of the Cruciatus to mask the transition between false and real – _imperiused_ and not, with a realistic patina of time-smudged details which would have convinced Severus if he hadn't known that Bellatrix was pants at the Imperius Curse, and that Lucius had been a willing recruit long before the age at which he was _imperiused_. One simply did not invest so heavily in contingency plans if one wholeheartedly supported one's cause.

As a double agent who, by that time, had wanted nothing more than to see _both_ of his masters in hell for the fact that their combined stupidity (even more-so than his own) had resulted in the death of his best friend, Severus had led the Old Goat to believe that the memories were genuine. Lying with the truth, through omission and the careful juxtaposition of unrelated facts to imply a dishonest conclusion had always been somewhat of a specialty of his, and Dumbledore had nothing on Voldemort when it came to using legilimency to detect deception.

Even now, he considered that he owed neither of them any true allegiance: the Dark Lord had lost his mind. He was no longer the man to whom Severus had sworn his loyalty, whom he had thought would make the world a better place for dark wizards like himself. The Headmaster had failed him, and entrapped him in his moment of greatest weakness, thinking to make him a pawn in his game, to be passed between the two players.

Severus had not been idle in the last ten years, or entirely overwhelmed by Dumbledore's demands, despite the Old Goat's efforts, and he had continued his studies of Dark Arts and mind magic, alongside the potions research that was expected of him as a Master. He was confident that he had developed sufficient independence to become a power in his own right, so long as the Dark Lord did not return and re-enforce the bond of the Mark. Plus, if and when the Dark Lord truly died, the vow that tied him to Dumbledore would be fulfilled, and he would be free of them both.

The conclusion that they would endeavor to see the Dark Lord gone had taken nearly no time at all to reach. The majority of the three hours had been spent arguing over who else ought to be brought in on the plan and whether Regulus ought to immediately come forward as Lord Black. They had tentatively decided to wait, on both counts. They needed more time to consider who might be useful allies, rather than security weaknesses, when it came to hunting down the Dark Lord, his horcruxes, and any other methods he might have used to stay his mortality.

Learning as much as they could about the Dark Lord, in the meanwhile, seemed the most reasonable first step. There were very few wizards or witches around anymore who had known him closely before his rise to power. Narcissa had decided that Alethea Prince, Lucius' aunt and Severus' maternal grandmother, was the most likely to hold clues to who the Dark Lord might have been before he met Abraxas Malfoy in the 1940s. She would take care of questioning the old woman, while Severus probed Dumbledore for any possible information he had squirrelled away over the years.

Regulus, they had decided, would take up residency in one of the unused Black properties, which both of the others assured Severus would recognize him without any need for public acknowledgement of his return. He would go to the goblins to have his identity verified, then begin to sort out the priorities he would need to deal with before coming forward and announcing himself to the Wizengamot, and catch up on the history he had missed over the course of the past twelve years. That should, the others thought, be quite sufficient to keep the time-traveler busy while they gathered more information. He wanted to see to freeing Sirius first thing – blood traitor he might be, but he had never been disowned, which meant they had a duty to each other, and the Gryffindor Black's falling out with the family had stemmed from his disagreements with a generation now long dead or at the very least quite mad.

Much to Severus' irritation, Regulus did not feel that Sirius deserved to languish any longer in Azkaban. Apparently the younger wizard had had an epiphany on the verge of death – a realization that he had never done anything of worth in his life, except die in an attempt to destroy the horcrux, and he had wished he could tell Sirius about it. Snape had sneered at him for his sentiment, but wisely kept his mouth shut. (It had only been a few hours ago, for Regulus, he supposed.)

Fortunately, Narcissa agreed with Severus that the best way to go about their silent revolt was to take care of the Dark Lord _first_ , thus freeing his followers of any remaining obligations, and eliminating the potential future threat before allowing Regulus to reveal himself. They were wagering that he and Narcissa could come up with enough leads on that project before school resumed to prevent the newly-Gryffindorish Regulus from running off and doing something supremely stupid, like… he cast about for something suitably idiotic… like being hunted down and _actually_ killed by Alastor Moody or that bastard Crouch.

And now, on top of all of that, it turned out that Harry Potter wasn't even really Harry Potter.

Fuck. Had he really just allowed himself to be engaged in conversation about the etymology of the term _legilimens_? With a future student of all people?

Gods and Powers, he needed sleep.

He wasn't nearly so prone to tangential verbal wandering when he'd gotten at least a few hours' rest. Or mental wandering, if it came to that.

"Um… okay," the child said hesitantly, looking into his eyes with only the slightest apprehension.

Well, then. To business.

It was the work of moments to skim through the child's recent memories. She was practically pushing them at him, in her desperation to prove her story. Then he delved into her memory-structure, a strangely netlike construction, made of variously interconnected memory-nodes, each connected to dozens if not hundreds of other, associated memories, bursts of light denoting thoughts travelling between them, often two or three at once, occasionally floating free to join what seemed to be an endless sea of questions. It was an impressively dense and active field for a child of eleven. The better part of it all seemed to be referential knowledge, too, which was even more unusual. But there was no sign of any tampering with any of it, aside from a few very old obliviations, most likely related to her earliest bouts of accidental magic.

Bafflingly enough, it was exactly as she had said: she was a muggleborn witch who went to bed one night in her proper body, and woke up the next morning in Harry Potter's. There was no sign of possession, where a foreign presence overlay the host-mind. There was no sign of external magical interference at all. With no clue as to how it had happened, he had no idea whatsoever how to reverse it. He supposed he would have to go visit the Grangers and see if the real Harry Potter was with them, though he had no idea what to do about it if he was. Or worse, if he _wasn't_.

He withdrew easily from her mind, careful not to disturb the connections between memories, and trying not to be bombarded by the wealth of questions whirling around her conscious thoughts. He was exhausted just _thinking_ of attempting to answer them.

He stared at her a moment longer, after he had fully disengaged, recalling another muggleborn witch, just as brilliant, watching him from behind those same green eyes, decades ago. But _this_ girl was not Lily, and she was trapped in the body of a scrawny, underfed version of James Potter. She was even using the same _name_ as the obnoxious pureblood once had – Jamie.

He knew why she had chosen it – it was right there on the edge of her consciousness at all times: _I'm a_ _girl_ _!_ And the diminutive was somewhat androgynous, at least in the muggle world. More-so than Harry, at any rate.

"This year is going to be a nightmare, I can already tell," he said aloud, in an exceedingly dry tone of exasperation.

"So you believe me?"

"Of course I believe you: no one could fake that level of false memory development." He had spot-checked all through her experiential knowledge, and there were clear, genuine memories from as early as age three.

"Do you know how to fix it?"

"There was no clue as to how the transfer – if that is what it was – occurred. Perhaps I shall be able to formulate a theory after I track down the _real_ Harry Potter."

Then a thought occurred to him. He really _must_ be tired if he was allowing this child's assumptions to potentially mislead him, away from the simplest explanation. He pulled his wand and performed a series of Healers' diagnostic charms on her.

"Erm… what was that?" she asked nervously.

"Just checking that your own body was not somehow altered to take on Potter's appearance, and the two of you simply switched places." If he had been tasked with disappearing Harry Potter, that might have been how he would do it. Long-term human transfiguration was difficult, but nowhere near as problematic as moving an entire consciousness and memory-structure, intact, from one body to another. Unfortunately, he was positive that the readings he was getting, of growth-stunting due to malnutrition and too little caloric input over a period of _years_ was not consistent with the life he had seen in her memories, where she had been a perfectly healthy girl. There were other, more blatant signs as well: "Ever break an arm?" he drawled.

"No, never – I've never broken _any_ bones!"

"I thought not." Powers below, what was he going to tell _Dumbledore_?

Nothing, he decided almost instantly. The less the old man knew about this, the better.

"So…"

"So your mind definitely has been moved to Potter's body. The next logical step is…" he trailed off, already thinking of the logistical issues of trying to explain the situation to the Grangers and obtain their permission to _legilimize_ the child they thought was their daughter – if they hadn't already figured out that something was going on.

"To see whether his mind is in my body?" the girl… boy? Girl, he decided – it was easier if he thought of her the way she thought of herself. _She_ finished his thought excitedly.

"It may be best to wait until the two of you are at Hogwarts," he mused. "Certainly easier than walking up to a pair of dentists and suggesting that they let an unknown wizard 'read' their daughter's mind…"

The child frowned thoughtfully. "No, I don't suppose mum _would_ take that well. You might be able to pass it off as some sort of aptitude test or the like. It's not as though they'd _know_ , would they?"

Severus sighed. "Keep thinking like that, and we'll make a Slytherin out of you yet."

She beamed at him – a thoroughly disconcerting combination of James Potter and Lily Evans – and started babbling about all Draco had told her about Slytherin and how it sounded like the best house, and wondering where he thought she truly belonged, at the moment, if not there.

He cut her off. "I shall consider the best means of determining whether Potter is occupying your body. In the meanwhile, you shall continue to act the part of Harry Potter."

"What? Of course I will – I mean, what else can I do?" She didn't sound too excited about that. Severus silently thanked the powers that it was a muggleborn who had managed to get tangled up in this latest Potter's life (even before he had arrived at Hogwarts, he was causing problems for Severus – bugger and blast!), rather than some obnoxious pureblood who would be all too pleased to find themselves in the place of the most famous child in Magical Britain. "But you'll tell me, won't you, sir? If you find anything out?"

"I shall. Though I warn you, Miss Granger, you must not get your hopes up. Even if Potter _is_ occupying your body, I have no idea how to reverse the condition, and if he is _not_ , the problem is even more complex."

The child wilted slightly. "Right, yes – of course. I suppose it was too much to hope for that it would be _easy_ to fix this…"

Severus had never been one to sugar-coat anything, especially for the students. He found they trusted him more for his refusal to pander to their supposed juvenile sensitivities. "Indeed," he confirmed.

"Are there, I don't know… _experts_ , on this sort of thing? Not that I don't trust you, of course, it's just…"

He glared at her, mostly for the sake of form. Asking about the possibility of a second opinion had, if anything, actually raised his own opinion of her, he noted with faint surprise. "John McKinnon, Alison Taggart, and Claire O'Rourke are the top three mind-magic researchers in Magical Britain. McKinnon is a mind healer. His background is in correcting abnormal behavior and psychology, though he mostly trains new mind healers anymore. Taggart is an Unspeakable. Her work focuses on understanding the interaction between the mind and the body, specifically in memory formation. She would likely have some ideas, but she may be more concerned with observing the phenomenon than reversing it. Asking the Unspeakables for help more often than not results in one becoming a lab-rat until they lose interest." That was the main reason he had never sought their assistance in neutralizing what remained of the Dark Mark. "O'Rourke is on retainer with Gringott's at the moment. She specializes in breaking mind-based curses and hexes, obliviation, memory modification, et cetera."

"And you, sir?"

"I believe I would be ranked fifth or sixth for knowledge and experience with a broad range of practical applications of the discipline, after the Head Obliviator and the Head Unspeakable. _My_ specialties are Potions, Dark Arts, and Mind Magic, and the intersections between them. I do consulting work with St Mungo's when they have an emergency requiring a legilimens or Potions Master with dark arts expertise."

"So if you can't find a way to fix it…"

"Then I will introduce you to O'Rourke next time she is in the country, and if the two of us can think of nothing to try, I will consult with Taggart and McKinnon – ideally without involving your name or you personally, though that may be impossible, and quite frankly, it would be preferable if it didn't come to that."

The girl's spine straightened with resolve, and she nodded, obviously relieved that he would not simply write off her problem. "I suppose you'd best call me 'Potter,' then, sir," she said. "For the sake of appearances."

Her resigned determination to weather the trial before her (honestly, the very fact that she treated it like a trial to be overcome, rather than a grand adventure, despite the fact that she had very clearly been thinking that it was all like something out of a storybook) earned her a small smile. "If it's any consolation, I believe you shall make a better Harry Potter than anyone brought up by the Dursleys."

She looked confused. "But all I've done is what _anyone_ would have done."

Was she? Yes, she was serious. Oh, to be young again… but then again, Severus rather doubted that he'd ever been quite _that_ naïve. "Someday you will understand why I find that statement so amusing," he informed her drily. "Come now, Potter. If anyone asks, I viewed your memory of the ritual in the hopes of gaining more insight into Regulus' appearance, and then you pelted me with questions about Hogwarts for the remainder of the time," he informed the child, dispelling the security spells he'd raised automatically, as a force of habit, and leading her toward the door again.

"But – I still _have_ ever so many questions about Hogwarts!" she protested, following him back down the corridor toward the 'Small' Dining Room. "Are we expected to have read all the books before we get there? Do most professors give exams on each chapter, or just at the end of term? Do most students already know much magic when they arrive? Are they all from magic families? I haven't learnt anything, yet – I'm going to be so far behind!"

Severus groaned as they re-entered the dining room to find it empty. "You will not be any further behind than any muggleborn student. If you read all of the textbooks ahead of time, you will be well ahead of many of the dunderheads who just _finished_ their first year, and I cannot speak for the other professors, but you would do well to treat every Potions lesson as though it were an exam. Go wake Draco and bother him, if you'd like to see how much magic the best tutors money can buy will teach a child before Hogwarts. I have far more important things to do with my time than to discuss the demographics of the incoming class and your myriad insecurities." Like a Potter to track down, a report to formulate for Dumbledore, and a rather involved conversation with the old man regarding his most-closely-held secrets. And sleep. Hopefully not in that order. Sleep should _definitely_ come before any dealings with the old goat.

The child seemed to take his meaning, because she looked around to make sure the coast was clear, then said quietly, "Seventeen Willow Circle, in East Farleigh, Maidstone, Kent."

He nodded sharply, only once, and took his leave without bothering with the proprieties. He had already pieced the address together from the girl's memories, but her confirmation was not unwelcome.

He was getting far too old for this, he thought, apparating to the Ministry and their Map Room to track down the coordinates for East Farleigh. The only bright spots he could find in this mess were that Regulus was no longer dead, and at least there wasn't any time-travel involved.

Yet.

_**Narcissa** _

It was far too early when Narcissa woke, or rather, it was rather later than she normally rose, but less than three hours after she had gone to bed, and thus seemed far too early.

Her husband was lounging in a chair by the fire as though he had been there for hours, but she suspected it was his entry which had disturbed her. She always had been a light sleeper.

"Good morning, Lucius," she greeted him warily. It wasn't often that he ventured into her suite. He much preferred his own bed on the rare occasion they indulged in marital congress, and they saw quite enough of each other around the rest of the house.

She felt privacy spells snap into place before he responded, so it was not so very much of a surprise when the first words out of his mouth were, "Regulus? You brought Regulus Black back from the dead?"

She struggled free of the bed and donned a bath-robe, simply because it was impossible to defend oneself sufficiently when one was lying in bed completely nude, and Lucius' tone was nothing if not confrontational. "I did. Or rather, the Powers did." She smiled radiantly. She knew it was radiant, because it was an expression she had practiced, at length, but it was also genuine, because despite the horrid news Regulus had borne, of the Dark Lord's mechanism for remaining alive, he had also brought with him, as the Powers had promised, an opportunity for the House of Black to be revived.

Lucius scowled. "You sacrificed _Harry Potter's_ choice of dedication in order to do it."

An elegant shrug. "The Covenant between the House of Black and the Dark Powers was sealed with the dedication of every Black to the Dark, for eternity. Sirius broke it, deliberately. I sacrificed the dedication of his Heir, his godson, in the hopes of reforaging it. They graciously decided to give us a chance, though not a guarantee."

" _Them_ , Cissa! _Them_! You are no longer a Black! The fate of that family is no longer your concern!"

"I will _always_ be a Black, Lucius!" she hissed at him. "Always! You knew that when you married me!"

"You are a _Malfoy_ now, Narcissa! The affairs of _our_ House and _our_ family must come first!"

"You think it does _not_ benefit the House of Malfoy to have a strong House of Black by its side?" she sneered.

Lucius sneered back, refusing to acknowledge that she had a point, and changing the subject. "Was this your plan all along, then? Use the child to revive your house? Nothing more?"

"Don't be absurd, Lucius. Jamie will be of great use politically as well, I am sure. The blow to Dumbledore alone would be worth taking him in. The child will go just as far dedicated to the dark as he would kept in ignorance of his heritage."

"You don't think you ought to have _discussed_ this with me?"

"What was there to discuss, husband? The part where we decided to take in the child? You were more than pleased to suggest it yourself. The part where I dedicated him to the Dark? Irrelevant. The part where I chose Regulus? It wasn't as though I exactly had the opportunity to send you a bloody owl with the Dark standing there telling me to choose!"

"How about the part where you decided to attempt to revive your thrice-cursed _Covenant_ without even the slightest hint of your plans?!"

Narcissa sniffed. " _You_ are not a Black. You wouldn't understand."

"No more is Draco, nor Jamie! You have no business involving them in your Black Arts chicanery!"

 _This_ argument? _Again_? " _Chicanery_?! Draco is my son every bit as much as he is yours, Malfoy! If he chooses to abandon the Old Ways when he is fifteen, then I shall let him, but until then, you agreed that he would be given every opportunity to experience the fullness of the wonder that is magic!"

"Summoning the ever-loving _Darkness_ isn't exactly your standard-fare holiday ritual, _Narcissa_!" he scowled at her, practically baring his teeth.

"Witnessing the substantiation of the _Presence_ is a _blessing_ , Malfoy! A _blessing_ I had never hoped to have the chance to see in my lifetime! Draco should count himself _lucky_ to have had the opportunity!"

" _You_ should count _your_ self lucky that the thrice-cursed Powers didn't demand his life in exchange!"

The lady of the house scoffed. "I would never agree to such an exchange! I love our son! He is my life!"

"And if they had demanded yours? It was reckless, Cissa! Reckless!" He sounded as though he actually cared, though perhaps more for the fact that she had not given the matter long thought than that she might have endangered herself.

"Such an opportunity is offered once in the lifetime of a House, Lucius! I could not but try to take it," she rebutted him, but she was shaken. She honestly did not know if she would have agreed to exchange her life for Regulus'. As a scion of Black, she properly ought to say so, as he had a better chance by far to revive the house, and she had already done her duty, marrying Malfoy and bearing his son, so doing so would not dishonor her, but she knew herself to be selfish, and did not want to die. It was a moot point, in any case. "I knew and they knew what I was offering. My life was never on the table."

"I cannot believe you… you _dedicated_ Harry Potter to the Dark," Lucius shook his head slowly. He was a dark wizard through practice, not dedication, and as such never had understood what it was to trust in the Powers to affect one's life. "Potter would have _crucified_ you. Charlus _or_ James."

Narcissa smirked. Lucius' temper was quick to flare, and equally quick to die. It appeared he had said his piece, for the moment. " _Dorea_ was raised as much a Black as I, though. And Lily Evans would not have objected."

She had known Lily Evans well, once upon a time. The little minx had manipulated her younger self into a business relationship, of sorts, long before they found themselves on opposite sides of an all-out war. She blamed Evans and her former sister, Andromeda, equally, for her own tolerance toward the presence of certain (politically and economically useful) mudbloods within their society. She respected power, as every Black did, and she could not deny that the younger witch had been a force to be reckoned with, from her very first year in Magical Britain. Unlike most of her kind, Evans had never cared much for the political Light, and from hints Severus had dropped over the years, she had never bought in to the distinction between Light and Dark magic.

Her husband snorted. "Severus claims that Evans was dedicated to _both_ the Dark _and_ the Light. Absurd!"

The witch felt her eyes widen involuntarily. "It's not..." It would, in fact, explain much more than it didn't about the role Evans had played in the war. "Merlin was dedicated to Magic as a whole, and only rejected the Dark later in life, and Morgana was initially dedicated to the Light, before embracing the Dark as well." The Malfoy education on certain matters of deep magic was terribly flawed. Not for the first time, Narcissa reminded herself that her husband's ignorance of these things was not his fault, and that she was teaching their son better.

"You did _not_ just compare that mudblood to Morgana herself," Lucius said coldly.

"I could compare her to the Morrigan, and it would be accurate," she noted, raising a challenging eyebrow at him. The red-headed Healer had wrought more havoc on the Death Eaters than any other of Dumbledore's pawns. But she would concede the point that there _were_ less mythological accounts. "The latest example of dual dedication I can think of is one of the Boneses, well before the Statute was formalized. They used to dedicate all of their children to both poles on their thirteenth birthday."

"Why did they stop?" Her husband sounded skeptical.

"Because without constant practice of both Black and White Arts to maintain balance, they tended to fall more toward one pole or the other by default, and with the institution of the Statute, everyday use of High Ritual fell out of favor as it attracted too much attention. There was no point, really."

Lucius harrumphed, and changed the subject again. "What are you going to tell Draco about Regulus? From what Potter told Severus and myself, he _will_ have questions."

 _Blast it all,_ Narcissa swore silently. How to deal with Lucius and how much to tell him had been discussed extensively over the course of their impromptu war council the night prior. What to do about the boys' knowledge of Regulus' return hadn't come up in their preoccupation with the Dark Lord's horcrux(es), the argument about Sirius, and the question of whether Regulus should claim his position as Paterfamilias Black.

She supposed there was nothing to be done now that the boys did know. They would have to be sworn to secrecy, which might be easier said than done, if they understood what had happened in the Ritual Room: Potter could easily be afraid and untrusting of her, now. Then again, Healers Patil, Nockley, and Zleity, plus that welcome witch and whomever else had been in Receiving, were already aware of the existence of someone who looked an awfully lot like a Black, brought in to the hospital by herself, and the condition he had been in at that point. The only saving grace of Walburga's descent into madness was that she was highly unlikely to interact with any potential rumormongers – no one else was likely to believe that her cousin had escaped death, and still looked like his seventeen-year-old self. But the boys knew, and if they told anyone, it would be that much easier for the Dark Lord's few remaining free and faithful followers to make the connection before they were ready, or worse, the remaining Light zealots who were mad enough to believe it.

That would be… problematic.

The proper order of things, so far as the three Slytherins had managed to hash out the night before, would be to track down and destroy the remaining horcruxes, preventing the Dark Lord's eventual return, _then_ to reveal Regulus' existence and have him re-take the Black Seat in the Wizengamot and the role of Paterfamilias, and _then_ to procure a trial for Sirius, despite the fact that the revival of the House was her priority, and saving Sirius was apparently Regulus'.

Neither the boys nor Lucius could be trusted with the knowledge of the horcrux problem, at least for the moment. For one thing, the boys were only eleven, and hardly needed to know that sort of thing anyway, and for another, if the secret of Regulus' return was important (mostly for his safety), the secret of the horcruxes was paramount. Most of the Death Eaters who had escaped capture in the direct aftermath of the war were mad dogs. There was no telling what they would do if they discovered that the Dark Lord had left pieces of his soul lying around, just waiting to be recovered and used to resuscitate him. Their only chance for a decently successful life, after all, was if he returned. At the moment, they were living on the fringes of society, under assumed names, or else had fled to non-extradition countries to avoid their pasts. They hated those like Lucius and his cronies, who had given themselves up and disavowed their actions – mostly, Narcissa thought, out of jealousy that they had not been able to do the same.

She was not a little proud that her scheme to save her husband's neck had, in the end, put nearly every one of the Allied Dark Houses into the Malfoys' debt. It gave her an incredible amount of political pull when she chose to reach for those bonds of obligation. If they did this right, it would be those ties that saw Regulus accepted to the Wizengamot without a fight, and Sirius released with only a carefully controlled uproar.

But in the meanwhile, they would have to control the flow of information very, very carefully.

"The truth, I suppose," she said, suddenly realizing that she had not yet addressed Lucius' question. "Did you expect me to Obliviate my own son?"

"Of course not," the boy's father said smoothly, though the slight hesitation before he did so gave away the lie. He must have thought she was considering it during her own long pause. "But his mastery of Occlumency does… leave something to be desired."

"And it is far too late to correct that now," she agreed. Draco, most unfortunately, did not have the temperament for Occlumency. He, like Lucius, would have to mature a fair bit before he could even hope to come close to mastering the discipline. She herself was not well-suited to the practice either, but she had learned it anyway, thanks to certain dubious methods she was grateful she did not have enough skill as a legilimens to employ. Even if she were as good a legilimens as Arcturus, she was not certain she could have brought herself to effectively torture her child into building mental defenses. Severus could have done it, but he could not abide children, and she had honestly feared that he might cave to the temptation to alter Draco's personality if he was forced into prolonged contact with the boy when he was younger. He used to be _even more_ energetic and enthusiastic. "And in any case," she continued coolly, "Jamie certainly hasn't had an opportunity to learn either. Still, I hardly expect they will be legilimized at Hogwarts."

Lucius raised an eyebrow and passed her the Prophet from the table beside his chair.

One glance at the headline, and she revised her statement. Dumbledore would almost certainly legilimize both boys, out of spite, if nothing else. "I'll discuss it with Severus and see if there's a way to deal with it without obliviating them."

Her husband finally cracked a smile at the expression of irritation she put on as she skimmed the article. "You may want to wait a few days before that discussion," he smirked. "He was in a rather horrid mood this morning."

_**Draco** _

Draco woke, much earlier than usual, he noted, looking at the clock across the room. He wondered why. Then there was another rather tentative knock at his door.

He stumbled to open it, wondering who could possibly want to talk to him at this hour. It wasn't cleaning day, so it wouldn't be an elf, and mother was a much firmer knocker than whoever was still tapping at the heavy wood. She wouldn't have waited this long before barging in, either.

"'m up! I'm _coming_ ," he grumbled, pulling a robe over his greenest pajamas.

Father never visited his room at all. Much as he hated to admit it, he didn't see much of his idol outside of the occasional lesson on being the Heir of Malfoy. Maybe he was awake early enough to catch his father at breakfast. That thought perked him up almost as much as opening the door to see Jamie Potter's far-too-awake face. The events of the day before came back to him in a rush.

"Morning," he said intelligently.

Jamie entered without being bid, a brief expression of guilt flashing across his face. "Were you still sleeping? It's after seven!"

"Erm… yes? It's not even eight yet!"

"I've been up for _ages_ ," the other boy informed him. "I've already had breakfast, and talked to your father and Professor Snape. Your description didn't do him justice. Bit terrifying, that one. It sounds like your cousin, Regulus? Is recovering, by the way."

"Recovering from… being dead?"

"I gather he was only _mostly_ dead," Jamie said with a sort of expectant pause, then sighed. "Sorry, muggle joke. Remind me to make you read the Princess Bride. _Anyway_ , we need to talk!" he added sternly.

"About what?"

"About what happened last night!" Not only was there expectation, now, but also a hint of accusation.

"What did happen?"

"You _tricked_ me – you and your mum!"

"No we didn't!" Draco had no idea what the mad Potter was talking about.

"Professor Snape said you did, and your father didn't disagree. What do you have to say for yourself?!" Jamie glared.

"What the bloody hell am I supposed to have done?" he yelped.

The other boy continued to glare, hands now on his hips. "You and your mum tricked me into dedicating myself to the Dark! I thought I was just being polite! But no! Something happened! It did something to my magic! Apparently I'm now a Dark Wizard! That's the whole reason Regulus got brought back – your mum sacrificed _my choice_ of becoming a Dark Wizard to bring him back!" Jamie was breathing rather heavily by the end of his tirade, and pacing around the room.

Draco sat on the bed, shocked. "Really? I didn't know you could _do_ that." Apparently ritual magic was a little more interesting than he had thought.

"That's all you have to say for yourself?! No explanation, just 'really?'?!"

The accusatory tone was starting to wear a bit, especially after being woken up so bloody early, just to be yelled at. He knew this was Harry Potter, but honestly, _who did he think he was_? He glared back. "I don't really think that I owe you an explanation, seeing as you've clearly got a better idea of what in the nine hells is going on!" he snapped, and headed for the door.

Jamie followed him out into the corridor. "Where are you going?! I'm not done with you!"

"Well, I'm done with you! Who the hell barges into someone else's room, wakes them up, and then yells at them before they've even had breakfast? It's the sort of thing I'd expect from a _mudblood_ , not the Heir of the Noble and Ancient House of Potter!" _There, that should shut_ him _up_ , Draco thought triumphantly.

It didn't, though. Apparently Potter was too ignorant of proper culture to even realize when his behavior had just been corrected – or at least an attempt made. "What the blooming flip is a mudblood?!" he scowled. "Draco? Draco!" he shouted, as Draco ignored him, stalking away toward the dining room and breakfast. Apparently, though, he decided not to instigate an undignified chase through the corridors, as the next thing the Malfoy heir heard was the slamming of a heavy door behind him.

_Good riddance!_


	5. Regulus Black and the Redemption of the Darkest House - Chapter 1: Hit the Ground Running

Regulus woke up. This in itself was somewhat surprising to the seventeen-year-old wizard. The last thing he remembered (distantly, through the familiar haze of a calming draught) was a lake full of inferi rising up to drown him, and welcoming his death, after drinking… what was that stuff?

"Dolor inimica," a very dry voice said conveniently. "And enough muggle hallucinogens to give a giant a bad trip."

"And you just happened to have the antidote on hand?" a woman asked suspiciously.

"A basic Sufeline Antidote suffices once the muggle toxins are filtered out of the bloodstream," the dry, male voice admitted. "Though the pain is significantly decreased with the administration of sweet water alone."

There was a blessedly familiar brush of legilimency against his Occlumency shields. Only one person used that particular method of verifying others' identity, so lightly that it might have been entirely unconscious on his part. "Severus?" he forced his eyes open to see a much older, supremely dour-looking potions expert glaring down at him.

"Regulus!" A regal blonde seized his hand tightly, falling from her chair to kneel beside him, openly crying as Black ladies never did.

"Cissy? Wha'appened? Am I at St Mungo's?"

"You are," Severus answered. "And now that you are conscious, I shall go make my report to Healer Patil. Narcissa, I trust you will catch your cousin up on the relevant history?"

"History?" he rasped. "What's happened?"

Cissy regained control of herself, and nodded blotting at her eyes with a corner of his sheet as Severus slipped out of the room. "Regulus… Reggie… it's 1991. You've been missing – presumed dead – for twelve years."

"What? No, I haven't – I can't have been! It's only…" He trailed off as he realized that despite her well-preserved appearance, there were lines on her face that had not been there the week before, and his favorite cousin's eyes now held far more experience than any nineteen-year-old's could hold (even one raised in the House of Black). Like Severus, Cissy had undoubtedly aged, apparently overnight.

"Bellatrix told us you'd turned traitor and been executed for your crimes," she clarified. "The Dark Lord fell in 1981. Bellatrix and Sirius are both in Azkaban. Uncle Arcturus passed beyond the Veil last spring, so Auntie Walburga has been Acting Head of House."

"What? How did the Dark Lord _fall_? Is he dead?" Regulus scrabbled at his blankets to look at his left arm. The Mark was faded, but still present. He must not have died properly – had Kreacher not destroyed the horcrux before this 'fall'? "And why's Sirius in Azkaban?" he added, as the rest of his cousin's words registered.

"No one knows what happened to the Dark Lord. He went to attack the Potters on Samhain in '81 and disappeared."

"And Sirius?"

"He – he was a Death Eater, or so they say. He betrayed the Potters, at the end of the war."

Regulus snorted. Like that could ever have happened. But he'd get to the bottom of that later. "And you? Lucius?"

"Imperiused, the whole time," Narcissa lied smoothly, raising a challenging eyebrow at him.

"Sooo…"

"I am loyal to the Family, as ever. As for politics, well… without the Dark Lord calling on the Marks, Lucius has been free to make his own way."

The seventeen-year-old narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Can I trust you?"

Narcissa chuckled. "Can you _not_?"

Regulus grinned. "Point." It wasn't as though he had a lot of other options. "Am I going to be crucified for having the Mark? I _was_ underage when I got it, after all, and there's no proof of anything else I did," he raised an eyebrow suggestively: he had, in fact, been of age, though there was no way anyone could prove it, if Cissy backed his story.

She shrugged. "I'll take care of it. There's bound to be some sort of trial, but…"

"In light of the extenuating circumstances of my appearance here in… did you say 1991? Dark Powers. Okay. So in light of that, and the fact they think I'm dead… no, actually, maybe we'd better keep it that way for a while," he said, as a thought occurred to him mid-Wizengamot-mockery. The Dark Lord wasn't dead – but he had to know that Regulus had turned against him – isn't that what Severus had said? So his safest bet, until he could finish what he started in that cave might actually be _staying dead_ himself. Officially.

His (now much) older cousin gave him a _look_ suggesting he'd lost the plot.

"If we need it, I might have a free pass, at least from the Light. I'll explain," he elaborated, with an eye-roll and a cough, fumbling for the water pitcher on the bedside table. Narcissa poured and helped him sip at it. "But first… _Kreacher!_ "

The elderly elf appeared with a crack. "Master Regulus is calling Kreacher? But Master Regulus is dead, and Kreacher is failing him these long years…"

"I'm not dead!" Regulus protested, as vehemently as he could, given his exhaustion. "Kreacher! How long has it been since I ordered you from that cave?"

The elf, in typical elven fashion, went from doubtful to elated to sorrowful within the space of a few breaths as the humans looked on in various states of shock. "Master Regulus is alive? Kreacher does not understand. Kreacher is feeling Master's magic die twelve years, three months and fifteen days ago. And now Master is back? Master Regulus! Mistress will be so pleased! But Kreacher is failing Master Regulus in his task. Kreacher must be punished, Master." The elf bowed low, his nose nearly scraping the floor.

Regulus groaned. That explained why the Dark Lord hadn't died properly, then. And apparently all his almost being drowned by a lake full of dead people was for _nothing_. "Kreacher, I release you from your task. You do not need to punish yourself as long as you tried everything you could. Bring –" he broke off with a cough, and gratefully accepted a bit more water from Narcissa. "Bring the locket to me. And _don't_ tell my mother I'm alive."

"Yes, Master Regulus!" The elf vanished and reappeared almost instantly, with a large golden locket in hand. "Master Regulus' Locket, sir!"

"Thank you, Kreacher. You may return to Grimmauld Place. Do not tell my mother I am alive. If she asks you where you have been, or in any other way attempts to elicit information on your whereabouts whilst you have been attending to me, you are to _lie_ , and give no indication of my return, understood?"

"Yes, sir, Master Regulus, sir!" the elf beamed. "Kreacher is being pleased to have Master Regulus returned, sir!" And then he vanished, yet again.

Narcissa looked from the place he had so recently stood, to Regulus' face, and then to the locket, with its bright, emerald-encrusted 'S'. "Regulus, what is that?" she asked, reaching curiously for the dark magic it radiated faintly.

"This," he answered grimly, with a moue of distaste, "is a horcrux. _The Dark Lord's_ horcrux."

" _Fuck_."

Neither Regulus nor Narcissa were the sort to be regularly inclined to swearing, but Regulus would be willing to bet that his cousin concurred every bit as much as he did with Severus' pronouncement upon his impeccably-timed return. "Indeed."


End file.
